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By fear, thy bosom's flut’ring guest,
 By hope, that soon shall fears remove,
We bid thee break the bonds of rest,
 And wake thee at the call of love.
    Wake, Maid, &c.

Wake, Edith, wake, in yonder bay
 Lies many a galley, gaily mann'd:
We hear the merry Pibroch play,
 We see the streamer’s silken band:
What Chieftain’s praise these Pibroch swell,
 What Crest is on thy banners wore,
The Harp, the Minstrel dare not tell,
 The riddle must be read in love.
    Wake, Maid, &c.

 

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WALLACE’S LAMENT,
After the Battle of Falkirk.
(Tune—Maids of Arrochar.)

Thou dark winding Carron, once pleasing to see,
 To me thou can’t never give pleasure again,
My brave Caledonians he low on the lee,
 And thy streams are deep ting’d with the blood of the slain!
'Twas base-hearted treachery that doom’d our undoing;
 My poor bleeding country, what more can I do?