THE HIGHLANDER's LAMENT.
SONG XLVII.
1
The winter wind hangs heavy
With the smoke of my hame;
The echoes yet are murm'ring,
With shrieks of my dame;
The moans of my children,
Yet dream me awake,
Though the heart's-blood lies frozen,
I spilt for their sake.
2
How blythsome blew the reaper's horn,
Afore my harvest band,
Till the drum of the spoiler
Awoke in the land:
Now I nestle with the eagle,
In the high mountain hold,
And I roam with the wild fox,
That howls on the wold.
3
My locks are frozen to the ground,
And sleety comes the rain,
Thou summer wind, to warm the earth,
When wilt thou come again;
For when the dreary wind is gone,
Sharp sleet and driving snaw,
Sound will I sleep aneath the turf,
Where primroses blaw.
