My horse shall ride through ranks sae rude,
As through the moorland fern, Then ne'er let the gentle Norman blude
Grow cauld for Highland kerne.'
��LXI FAREWELL
FAREWELL ! Farewell ! the voice you hear Has left its last soft tone with you;
Its next must join the seaward cheer, And shout among the shouting crew.
The accents which I scarce could form Beneath your frown's controlling check,
Must give the word, above the storm, To cut the mast and clear the wreck.
The timid eye I dared not raise,
The hand that shook when pressed to thine, Must point the guns upon the chase,
Must bid the deadly cutlass shine.
To all I love, or hope, or fear,
Honour or own, a long adieu ! To all that life has soft and dear,
Farewell ! save memory of you !
�� �
