The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd Centenary Edition. With a Memoir of the Author, by the Rev. Thomas Thomson ... Poems and Life. With Many Illustrative Engravings [by James Hogg] |
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Flora Macdonald's Farewell.
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
Flora Macdonald's Farewell.
Far over yon hills of the heather sae green,
An' down by the correi that sings to the sea,
The bonnie young Flora sat sighing her lane,
The dew on her plaid, and the tear in her e'e.
She look'd at a boat wi' the breezes that swung
Away, on the wave, like a bird of the main,
An' aye as it lessen'd, she sigh'd an' she sung,
Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!
Fareweel to my hero, the gallant an' young,
Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!
An' down by the correi that sings to the sea,
The bonnie young Flora sat sighing her lane,
The dew on her plaid, and the tear in her e'e.
She look'd at a boat wi' the breezes that swung
Away, on the wave, like a bird of the main,
An' aye as it lessen'd, she sigh'd an' she sung,
Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!
Fareweel to my hero, the gallant an' young,
Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!
The muircock that craws on the brows of Ben-Connal,
He kens of his bed in a sweet mossy hame;
The eagle that soars o'er the cliffs of Clan-Ronald,
Unawed and unhunted, his eyry can claim;
The solan can sleep on the shelve of the shore,
The cormorant roost on his rock of the sea,
But ah! there is one whose hard fate I deplore,
Nor house, ha', nor hame, in this country has he—
The conflict is past, and our name is no more—
There's nought left but sorrow for Scotland and me!
He kens of his bed in a sweet mossy hame;
The eagle that soars o'er the cliffs of Clan-Ronald,
Unawed and unhunted, his eyry can claim;
The solan can sleep on the shelve of the shore,
The cormorant roost on his rock of the sea,
But ah! there is one whose hard fate I deplore,
Nor house, ha', nor hame, in this country has he—
The conflict is past, and our name is no more—
There's nought left but sorrow for Scotland and me!
The target is torn from the arm of the just,
The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave,
The claymore for ever in darkness must rust,
But red is the sword of the stranger and slave;
The hoof of the horse, and the foot of the proud,
Have trod o'er the plumes on the bonnet of blue:
Why slept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud
When tyranny revell'd in blood of the true?
Fareweel, my young hero, the gallant and good;
The crown of thy fathers is torn from thy brow!
The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave,
The claymore for ever in darkness must rust,
But red is the sword of the stranger and slave;
The hoof of the horse, and the foot of the proud,
Have trod o'er the plumes on the bonnet of blue:
Why slept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud
When tyranny revell'd in blood of the true?
Fareweel, my young hero, the gallant and good;
The crown of thy fathers is torn from thy brow!
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |