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Rest the oars to pleasure thee;
When chilly breezes sweep the tide,
I‘ll hap thee wi' my Highland Plaid.
Lowland lads may dress mair fine,
Woo in words mair saft than mine;
Lowland lads hae mair of art,
A' my boast 's an honest heart,
Whilk shall ever be my pride—
O row thee in my Highland Plaid.
Bonnie lad, ye've been sae leal,
My heart wad break at our fareweel;
Lang your love has made me fain,
Tak me-tak me for your ain.
’Cross the Frith, away they glide,
Young Donald and his Lowland bride.
IRISH PROVIDENCE.
My darling, says Pat, to his spouse on his lap,
At this present writing we're not worth a rap,
With our faces so lean, and our duds on our backs.
Our cow and our pig, my dear Norah, are dead,
