There's no a heart in a' the glen
That disna dread the day.
O, what will a' the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?
Young Jock has ta'en the hill for't—
A waefu' wight is he;
Poor Harry's ta'en the bed for't,
An' laid him doun to dee;
An' Sandy's gane unto the kirk,
An' learning fast to pray.
And, O, what will the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?
The young laird o' the Lang-shaw
Has drunk her health in wine;
The priest has said—in confidence—
The lassie was divine:
And that is mair in maiden's praise
Than ony priest should say:
But, O, what will the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?
The wailing in our green glen
That day will quaver high;
'Twill draw the red-breast frae the wood,
The laverock from the sky;
The fairies frae their beds o' dew
Will rise and join the lay:
An' hey! what a day 'twill be
When Maggy gangs away!
The Thistle and the Rose.
[Robert Allan.—In this song, the spirit of some of our old Jacobite effusions is happily caught. The white rose, as is well known, was the emblem of the Stuart family.]
There grew in bonnie Scotland
A thistle and a brier,
And aye they twined and clasped,
Like sisters kind and dear:
The rose it was sae bonnie,
It could ilk bosom charm;
The thistle spread its thorny leaf,
To keep the rose frae harm.
A bonnie laddie tended
The rose baith air and late;
He watered it, and fanned it,
And wove it with his fate,
And the leal hearts of Scotland
Prayed it might never fa',
The thistle was sae bonnie green,
The rose sae like the snaw.
But the weird sisters sat
Where Hope's fair emblems grew;
They drapt a drap upon the rose
O' bitter, blasting dew;
And aye they twined the mystic thread,—
But ere their task was done,
The snaw-white shade it disappeared—
It withered in the sun!
A bonnie laddie tended
The rose baith air an' late;
He watered it, and fanned it,
And wove it with his fate;
But the thistle tap it withered,—
Winds bore it far awa',—
And Scotland's heart was broken
For the rose sae like the snaw!
The Covenanter's Lament.
[Robert Allan.—Tune, "The Martyr's Grave."]
There's nae covenant now, lassie!
There's nae covenant now!
The solemn league and covenant
Are a' broken through!
There's nae Renwick now, lassie,
There's nae gude Cargill,
Nor holy Sabbath preaching
Upon the Martyr’s Hill!
It's naething but a sword, lassie!
A bluidy, bluidy ane;
Waving owre poor Scotland
For her rebellious sin.
Scotland's a' wrang, lassie,
Scotland's a' wrang—
Its neither to the hill nor glen,
Lassie, we daur gang.
The Martyr's Hill forsaken,
In summer's dusk, sae calm;
There's nae gathering now, lasie,
To sing the e'enin' psalm!
