 | The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill |  |
26
WEEP NOT, MY LOVE.
O weep not, my love, though I go to the war,
For soon I 'll return rich with honours to thee;
The soul-rousing pibroch is sounding afar,
And the clans are assembling in Morar-craiglee:
Our flocks are all plunder'd, our herdsmen are murder'd,
And, fir'd with oppression, aveng'd we shall be;
To-morrow we 'll vanquish these ravaging English,
And then I 'll return to thy baby and thee.
For soon I 'll return rich with honours to thee;
The soul-rousing pibroch is sounding afar,
And the clans are assembling in Morar-craiglee:
Our flocks are all plunder'd, our herdsmen are murder'd,
And, fir'd with oppression, aveng'd we shall be;
To-morrow we 'll vanquish these ravaging English,
And then I 'll return to thy baby and thee.
Slow rose the morn on Dunscarron's dark brow,
Firm rose our youths in their fighting array,
Powerful as Morven they rush'd on the foe,
And the din of the battlefield deafened the day;
The conflict was glorious, our clans were victorious,
Yet sad was the Bard the dark herald to be,—
Ah! poor weeping Flora, thy dear promised Morar
Will never return to thy baby and thee.
Firm rose our youths in their fighting array,
Powerful as Morven they rush'd on the foe,
And the din of the battlefield deafened the day;
The conflict was glorious, our clans were victorious,
Yet sad was the Bard the dark herald to be,—
Ah! poor weeping Flora, thy dear promised Morar
Will never return to thy baby and thee.
| The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill | |