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That rous'd the hills an' cheer'd the vales
In days o' yore,
The pipe in unco lands bewails
Its ain dear shore.
Wae's me! but dowie is the tune,
"Fareweel Lochaber," left owre ſoon,
The piper e’es the wanin' moon,
In wastlin skies,
That hang his kintra hills aboon,
A shield in size!
Och, Morven! a' thy music's dead,
The sheep are come, thy bairns are fled,
The mist-row'd ghaist, baith grim an' dread,
His visage shaws;
The thistle shakes his lonely head
On ruin'd wa's.
A' ye wha sud your kintra keep,
O dinna dinna fa' asleep;
Let Scotia's childer nae mair weep
Their kintra's ills;
There's room for men as weel's for sheep,
On Highland hills.
Rouse up the pipe's inspiring strain,
Till a' the Grampians ring again,
