The Whigs may scoff, the Whigs may jeer,
But, ah! that luve maun be sincere,
Which still keeps true whate'er betide,
An' for his sake leaves a' beside.
He's owre the hills, &c.
His right these hills, his right these plains;
O'er Highland hearts secure he reigns;
What lads e'er did, our lads will do:
Were I a lad, I'd follow him too.
He's owre the hills, &c.
Sae noble a look, sae princely an air,
Sae gallant and bold, sae young and sae fair;
Oh! did you but see him, ye'd do as we've done;
Hear him but ance, to his standard you'll run.
He's owre the hills, &c.
A Boy’s Song.
[James Hogg.]
Where the pools are bright and deep,
Where the grey trout lies asleep,
Up the river and o'er the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thick and greenest;
There to trace the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Why the boys should drive away
Little sweet maidens from the play,
Or love to banter and fight so well,
That's the thing I never could tell.
But this I know, I love to play,
Through the meadow, among the hay;
Up the water and o'er the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Mary Shearer.
[Written by Thomas Atkinson. Set to music by T. M'Farlane. Mr. Atkinson was a bookseller in Glasgow, and author of a vast variety of fugitive pieces in prose and verse. He died of pulmonary disease while on his passage to Barbadoes for the benefit of his health, on the 10th of October, 1833, in the 32d year of his age.]
She's aff and awa' like the lang summer day,
And our hearts and our hills are now lanesome and dreary;
The sun-blinks o' June will come back ower the brae,
But lang for blythe Mary fu' mony may weary!
For mair hearts than mine
Kenn'd o' nane that were dearer;
But nane mair will pine
For the sweet Mary Shearer!
She cam' wi' the spring just like ane o' its flowers,
And the blue bell and Mary baith blossom'd thegither;
The bloom o' the mountain again will be ours,
But the rose o' the valley nae mair will come hither!
Their sweet breath is fled—
Her kind looks still endear her;
For the heart maun be dead
That forgets Mary Shearer!
Than her brow ne'er a fairer wi' jewels was hung;
An e'e that was brighter ne'er glanced on a lover;
Sounds safter ne'er dropt frae an aye-saying tongue,
Nor mair pure is the white o' her bridal-bed cover.
O! he maun be bless'd
Wha's allowed to be near her;
For the fairest and best
O' her kind's Mary Shearer!
But farewell, Glenlin, and Dunoon, and Loch Striven,
My country and kin!—since I've sae lov'd the stranger;
Where she's been maun be either a pine or a heaven,
—Sae across the braid warld for a while I'm a ranger!
Though I try to forget—
In my heart still I'll wear her:—
For mine may be yet,
—Name and a'—Mary Shearer!
