6
Haud awa, bide awa,
Haud awa frae me, Donald;
What care I for a’ your wealth,
An a’ that ye can gi’e, Donald?
He wears nae plaid, nor tartan hose,
Nor garters at his knee, Donald;
But O he wears a faithfu’ heart,
And love blinks in his e’e, Donald.
Sae haud awa, bide awa,
Come nae mair at e’en, Donald;
I wadna break my Jamie’s heart,
To be a Highland Queen, Donald.
THIS IS NO MY PLAID.
O this is no my plaid,
My plaid, my plaid,
O this is no my plaid,
Bonny though the colours be.
The ground of mine was mix’d wi’ blue,
I got it frae the lad I loe;
He ne’er has gi’en me cause to rue,
And O the plaid was dear to me.
Farewell ye lowland plaids o’ grey,
Nae kindly charms for me ye hae,
The tartan shall be mine for aye,
For O the colour’s dear to me.
For mine was silky, saft and warm,
It wrapped me round frae arm to arm,
And like mysel’ it bore a charm,
