Auld time may wave his dusky wing, and chance may cast his die,
And the rainbow-hues o' flattering hope may darken in the sky,
Gay summer pass, and winter stalk stern ower the frozen lea,
Nor leaf nor milky blossom deck the hawthorn tree;
But still maun be the pulse that wakes this glowing heart of mine,
For me nae mair the spring maun bud, nor summer blossoms shine,
And low maun be my hame, sweet maid, ere I be false to thee,
Or forget the vows I breathed beneath the hawthorn tree.
Is your war-pipe asleep.
[Written by the Rev. George Allan, D. D. Set to music by Peter Macleod, in his "Original Melodies of Scotland."]
Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever, M'Crimman?
Is your war pipe asleep, and for ever?
Shall the pibroch that welcomed the foe to Benaer,
Be hush'd when we seek the dark wolf in his lair,
To give back our wrongs to the giver?
To the raid and the onslaught our chieftains have gone,
Like the course of the fire-flaught their clans-men pass'd on;
With the lance and the shield 'gainst the foe they have bound them,
And have ta'en to the field with their vassals around them.
Then raise your wild slogan-cry! On to the foray!
Sons of the heather-hill, pine-wood, and glen!
Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray,
Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!
Youth of the daring heart, bright be thy doom,
As the bodings which light up thy told spirit now;
But the fate of M'Crimman is closing in gloom,
And the breath of the grey wraith hath pass'd o'er his brow:
Victorious in joy thou'lt return to Benaer,
And be clasp'd to the hearts of thy best beloved there;
But M'Crimman, M'Crimman, M'Crimman, never, never, never, never!
Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not, M'Crimman?
Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not?
If thy course must be brief, let the proud Saxon know,
That the soul of M'Crimman ne'er quail'd, when a foe
Bared his blade in the land he had won not!
Where the light-footed roe leaves the wild breeze behind,
And the red heather bloom gives its sweets to the wind,
There our broad pennon flies, and the keen steeds are prancing,
'Mid the startling war-cries, and the war-weapons glancing.
Then raise your wild slogan-cry! On to the foray!
Sons of the heather-hill, pine-wood, and glen!
Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray,
Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again.
