O'er hill and dale roamin'.
O'er hill and dale roamin', at day dawn or gloamin',
At kirk, or at market, or dance on the green,
Now Rosa's beauty praisin', now sad and silent gazin',
Now sighin' and vowin', young Donald was seen.
With frowns she met his glances, with sneers his fond advances,
She laugh'd when he spak' with the tear in his e'e,
And sprung away flauntin', some idle chorus chauntin',
Whene'er he sigh'd "Rosa! thou'rt dear, dear to me."
The youth tir'd with doubtin', and teaz'd by her floutin',
Grew proud, and resented her scorning ere long,
No more fond vows breathing—for others wild flowers wreathing,
He mark'd not her beauty, nor thrill'd at her song.
Though her neck was the whitest, her blue eyes the brightest,
He vaunted of maiden's more lovely than she;
Whose eyes tender languish would charm all his anguish,
And sigh'd no more "Rosa, thou'rt dear, dear to me."
Proud hearts will be changing, soon Rosa was ranging,
Pale, waesome, and weeping, and ghaist-hko alane,
Through scenes that once delighted, though now lone and blighted,
Unblest by the vows she might ne'er hear again.
But, ah! love's not thrown off, as spring-flowers are blown off,
Her truant was waitin' beside the hawthorn tree;
He threw his arms around her, and oh! so kind he found her,
They murmur'd together, "Thou'rt dear, dear to me."
How blythely the pipe.
[Joseph Macgregor.—Air, "Kinloch of Kinloch."]
How blythely the pipe through Glenlyon was sounding,
At morn when the clans to the merry dance hied;
And gay were the love-knots, o'er hearts fondly bonnding,
When Ronald woo'd Flora, and made her his bride.
But war's banner streaming, soon chang'd their fond dreaming,—
The battle cry echoed around and above;
Broad claymores were glancing, and war-steeds were prancing;
Up, Ronald! to arms for home and your love.
All was hush'd o'er the hill, where love linger'd despairing,
With her bride-maids still deek'd in their gay festal gear!
And she wept as she saw them fresh garlands preparing,
Which might laurel Love's brow, or be strew'd o'er his bier!
But, cheer thee, fond maiden—each wild breeze is laden
With victory's slogan, through mountain and grove;
Where death streams were gushing, and war-steeds were rushing,
Lord Ronald has conquer'd for home and for love!
