Jim Crow/This is no my plaid

THIS IS NO MY PLAID.

O this is no my plaid,
My plaid, my plaid,
O this is no my plaid,
Bonny though the colours be.

The ground of mine was mix’d wi’ blue,
I got it frae the lad I loe;
He ne’er has gi’en me cause to rue,
And O the plaid was dear to me.
Farewell ye lowland plaids o’ grey,
Nae kindly charms for me ye hae,
The tartan shall be mine for aye,
For O the colour’s dear to me.

For mine was silky, saft and warm,
It wrapped me round frae arm to arm,
And like mysel’ it bore a charm,
And O the plaid is dear to me.
Although the lad the plaid who wore,
Is now upon a distant shore;
And cruel seas between us roar,
I’ll mind the plaid that sheltered me.

The lad that gied me’t likes me weel,
Although his name I darna tell,
He likes me just as weel’s himsel’,
And O the plaid is dear to me.
O may the plaidie yet be worn,
By Caledonians yet unborn;
Ill fa’ the wretch that e’er doth scorn,
The plaidie that’s sae dear to me.

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