For fancy was cheer’d by traditional story,
Disclos’d by the natives of dark Loch-na-garr.
Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale!
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind, o’er his own Highland dale.
Round Loch-na-garr, while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car;
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers,
They dwell ’mid the tempests of dark Loch-na-garr.
THE LASS O’ GOWRIE.
’Twas on a simmer’s afternoon,
A wee before the sun gaed down,
My lassie wi' a braw new gown,
Came o’er the hill to Gowrie.
The rosebud, ting’d wi’ morning showers,
Bloom’d fresh within the sunny bowers,
But Kitty was the fairest flower
That ever bloom’d in Gowrie.
I had nae thought to do her wrang,
But round her waist my arms I flang,
And said, ‘My lassie, will ye gang
To view the Carse o’ Gowrie?