The Crook and Plaid.
[Rev. Henry S. Riddell.]
I winna lo'e the laddie that ca's the cart and pleugh,
Though he should own that tender love that's only felt by few;
For he that has this bosom a' to fondest love betray'd,
Is the kind and faithfu' laddie that wears the crook and plaid.
At morn he climbs the mountains wild, his fleecy flock to view,
When the larks sing in the heaven aboon, and the flowers wake 'mang the dew,
When the thin mist melts afore the beam, ower gair and glen convey'd,
Where the laddie loves to wander still, that wears the crook and plaid.
At noon he leans him dowm, high on the heathy fell,
When his flocks feed a' sae bonnilie below him in the dell;
And there he sings o' faithful love, till the wilds around are glad;
Oh, how happy is the laddie that wears the crook and plaid!
He pu's the blooms o' heather pure, and the lily-flouir sae meek,
For he weens the lily like my brow, and the heath-bell like my cheek.
His words are soft and tender as the dew frae heaven shed;
And nane can charm me like the lad that wears the crook and plaid.
Beneath the flowery hawthorn-tree, wild growing in the glen,
He meets me in the gloamin' grey, when nane on earth can ken;
And leal and tender is his heart beneath the spreading shade,
For weel he kens the way, I trow, to row me in his plaid.
The youth o' mony riches may to his fair one ride,
And woo across a table his many-titled bride;
But we will woo beneath the tree, where cheek to cheek is laid—
Oh, nae wooer's like the laddie that rows me in his plaid.
To own the tales o' faithfu' love, oh, wha wad no comply?
Sin' pure love gi'es mair o' happiness than aught aneath the sky.
Where love is in the bosom thus, the heart can ne'er be sad;
Sae, throush life, I'll lo'e the laddie that wears the crook and plaid.
Prince Charles Edward.
[David Vedder.—Arranged to a beautiful Gaelic air by Finlay Dun.]
Farewell to thee, Scotland, thy verdure is blighted,
Thy daisies are steeped in the blood of the brave;
And I, who thy wrongs with the sword would have righted,
