And now, though strain’d and roughen’d, still
Rung wildly sweet to dale and hill.
XXII.
SONG.
They bid me sleep, they bid me pray,
They say my brain is warp’d[261] and wrung—
I cannot sleep on Highland brae,
I cannot pray in Highland tongue.
But were I now where Allan[262] glides,
Or heard my native Devan’s[263] tides,