Where'er they pass'd, at every door
Stood maids and wives the sight to see;
Curs bark'd, and bairnies by the score
Ran bawling loud and merrily.
But still the bride looks dull and wan;
She's thinking of her Highlandman.
But still the bride, &c.
The Lowland laird, in bridegroom's gear,
Prick'd forth to meet the fair array;
His eye was bright, his voice was clear,
And every word was boon and gay.
Ah! little did he reckon then
Of bold and burly Highlandmen.
Ah! little did he reckon, &c.
The bride she raised her drooping brow,
And red as crimson turn'd her cheek.—
What sound is that? The war-pipe now
Descending from yon broomy peak.
It sounds like marching of a clan;
O can it be her Highlandman!
It sounds like, &c.
Their bonnets deck'd with heather green,
Their shoulders broad with tartans bound,
Their checker'd hose were plainly seen
Right fleetly moving to the sound.
Quick beat her heart, within a ken,
To see the valiant Highlandmen.
Quick beat her heart, &c.
Now challenge-shout is heard, and soon
The bare claymores are flashing bright;
And off scour'd many a Lowland loon,
Who ill could brook the fearful sight.
