Heath flowers being a collection of poems, chiefly lyrical, written in the Highlands. By William Glen |
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MARGARET M'FARLANE. |
 | Heath flowers |  |
37
MARGARET M'FARLANE.
Margaret! thy name I'll swell on high,
An' twine it wi' the Heath-flowers gaudy;
I loe thee for thy bonny eye,—
Say, wilt thou tak a Highland Laddie?
Aft, at the foot o' Craigmore steep,
In summer's mild an' pleasant weather,
We twa hae tented flocks o' sheep,
And happy were we baith thegither.
An' twine it wi' the Heath-flowers gaudy;
I loe thee for thy bonny eye,—
Say, wilt thou tak a Highland Laddie?
Aft, at the foot o' Craigmore steep,
In summer's mild an' pleasant weather,
We twa hae tented flocks o' sheep,
And happy were we baith thegither.
But years hae come, an' years hae past,
Since first I saw thee on Trombuie;
Yet lang will the impression last,
An' a' the homage that is due thee.
The Heath-Cock, wakenin' in the morn,
Wi' diamond dew-draps on ilk feather,
Appears, when on his pinions borne,
The Moorland King, the God of Heather!
Since first I saw thee on Trombuie;
Yet lang will the impression last,
An' a' the homage that is due thee.
The Heath-Cock, wakenin' in the morn,
Wi' diamond dew-draps on ilk feather,
Appears, when on his pinions borne,
The Moorland King, the God of Heather!
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I've seen him 'mong the dark-brown heath,
An' on Craiguchty heard him crying;
Beheld him in the throes o' death,
An' viewed his eyes an' plumage dying;
I've marked him when the death-shot flew,
Whan faded life an' sight before him,
His jetty wing, the brightest hue,
The last eye-glance, a Cairngorum!
An' on Craiguchty heard him crying;
Beheld him in the throes o' death,
An' viewed his eyes an' plumage dying;
I've marked him when the death-shot flew,
Whan faded life an' sight before him,
His jetty wing, the brightest hue,
The last eye-glance, a Cairngorum!
Margaret! thy ringlets clustering cling,
An' owre thy lovely temples gather,
They're blacker than the Heath-Cock's wing,
Whan May-dew bathes ilk glossy feather!
An' then thy ee, thy bonny ee,
Is like the Heath-Cock's, tremblin', deeing;
Whan, shot upon the moorlands, he
The sun's last brightest ray is seeing!
An' owre thy lovely temples gather,
They're blacker than the Heath-Cock's wing,
Whan May-dew bathes ilk glossy feather!
An' then thy ee, thy bonny ee,
Is like the Heath-Cock's, tremblin', deeing;
Whan, shot upon the moorlands, he
The sun's last brightest ray is seeing!
The lowland plain, the Saxon's pride,
Can never match our native mountains;
An', Margaret! can the dark-brown Clyde
Compare wi' limped highland fountains?
Then leave thae vales, whare fause joys smile,
Say, in our strath aince mair I'll view thee,
To rove thro' bonny Aberfoyle,
An youth's dear haunts on high Trombuie?
Can never match our native mountains;
An', Margaret! can the dark-brown Clyde
Compare wi' limped highland fountains?
Then leave thae vales, whare fause joys smile,
Say, in our strath aince mair I'll view thee,
To rove thro' bonny Aberfoyle,
An youth's dear haunts on high Trombuie?
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