7
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 colours dear to me.
For mine was silky, saft and warm,
It wrapped me round frae arm to arm,
And like myself it bore a charm,
And O ! the plaid is dear to me.
Although the lad the plaid who wore,
Is now upon a distant shore;
And cruel seas between us roar,
I’ll mind the plaid that sheltered me.
The lad that gi’ed me’t likes me weel,
Although his name I darna tell:
He likes me just as weel’s himse’;
And O the plaid is dear to me.
O may the plaidie yet be worn,
By Caledonians yet unborn,
Ill fa’ the wretch that e’er doth scorn,
The plaidie that’s sae dear to me.
