 | The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill |  |
68
AMANG THE LOMOND BRAES.
“Oh! lassie, wilt thou gang
To the Lomond wi' me,
The wild thyme 's in bloom,
And the flower 's on the lea?
Wilt thou gang, my dearest love?
I will ever constant prove;
I 'll range each hill and grove
On the Lomond wi' thee.”
To the Lomond wi' me,
The wild thyme 's in bloom,
And the flower 's on the lea?
Wilt thou gang, my dearest love?
I will ever constant prove;
I 'll range each hill and grove
On the Lomond wi' thee.”
“Oh! young men are fickle,
Nor trusted to be,
And many a native gem
Shines fair on the lea:
Thou may see some lovely flower
Of a more attractive power,
And may take her to thy bower
On the Lomond wi' thee.”
Nor trusted to be,
And many a native gem
Shines fair on the lea:
Thou may see some lovely flower
Of a more attractive power,
And may take her to thy bower
On the Lomond wi' thee.”
“The hind shall forsake,
On the mountain, the doe;
The stream of the fountain
Shall cease for to flow:
Ben Lomond shall bend
His high brow to the sea
Ere I take to my bower
Any flower, love, but thee.”
On the mountain, the doe;
The stream of the fountain
Shall cease for to flow:
Ben Lomond shall bend
His high brow to the sea
Ere I take to my bower
Any flower, love, but thee.”
She 's taken her mantle;
He 's taken his plaid;
He 's caft her a ring,
And he 's made her his bride:
They 're far o'er the hills
To spend their happy days,
And range the woody glens
Amang the Lomond braes.
He 's taken his plaid;
He 's caft her a ring,
And he 's made her his bride:
They 're far o'er the hills
To spend their happy days,
And range the woody glens
Amang the Lomond braes.
| The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill | |