THE LAMENT OF FLORA M'DONALD.
Far over the hills of the heather so green,
- And down by the Correi that sings to the sea,
The bonny young Flora sat weeping her one,
- The dew on her plaid, an' the tear in her ee,
She look'd at a boat with the breezes that swung,
- Away on the wave, like a bird of the main;
And aye as it lessen'd she sigh'd an' she sung,
- "Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again;
Fareweel to my hero, the gallant and young,
- Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again.
The muircock that craws on the brows o' Ben-Connal,
- He kens o' his bed in a sweet mossy hame,
The eagle that soars o'er the cliffs o' Clan-Ronald,
- Unawed and unhaunted his eiry can claim;
The Solan can sleep on the shelve of the shore,
- The Cormorant roost on his rock of the sea;
But oh! there is ane whose hard fate I deplore,
- Nor house, ha', nor hame, in his country has he;
The conflict is past, and our name is no more,
- There's nought left but sorrow for Scotland an' me.
The target is torn from the arms of the just,
- The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave,
The claymore for ever in darkness must rust,
- But red is the sword of the stranger and stave.
