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Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain,
And shakes the dark firs on the steep rocky brae,
While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain,
That murmured sae sweet to my laddie and me.
’Tis no its loud roar on the wintry wind swelling,
'Tis no the cauld blast brings the tears i’ my e’e—
For, O! gin I saw but my bonnie Scots callan,
The dark days o' winter were summer to me.
NEIL GOW'S FAREWEEL.
You've surely heard o' famous Neil,
The man that play'd the fiddle weel,
I wat he was a canty chiel,
And dearly lo'ed the whisky, O.
And ay since he wore tartan hose,
He dearly lo’ed the Athol brose;
And wae was he, you may suppose,
To play fareweel to whisky, O.
Alake, quoth Neil, I'm frail and auld,
And find my bluid grows unco cauld;
I think ’twad mak me blythe and bauld,
A wee drap Highland whisky, O.
And yet the doctors a' agree
That whisky's no the drink for me;
Saul! quoth Neil 'twill spoil my glee,
Should they part me and whisky, O.
Tho' I can get baith wine and ale,
And find my head and fingers hale,
