'Twas for her, the Maid of Islay,
Time flew o'er me wing'd with joy;
'Twas for her, the cheering smile aye
Beam'd with rapture in my eye.
Not the tempest raving round me,
Lightning's flash, or thunder's roll,
Not the ocean's rage could wound me,
While her image fill'd my soul.
Farewell, days of purest pleasure,
Long your loss my heart shall mourn!
Farewell, hours of bliss the measure,
Bliss that never can return.
Cheerless o'er the wild heath wand'ring,
Cheerless o'er the wave-worn shore,
On the past with sadness pond'ring,
Hope's fair visions charm no more.
Donald is no more.
O'er the braes and o'er the burn
Jessy strays baith night and morn,
Watching for her love's return
From a distant shore.
But, alas! she looks in vain;
He will ne'er return again;
For in battle he was slain—
Donald is no more.
For in battle, &c.
Hope awhile her bosom cheers—
Soothes her doubts, allays her fears—
Still her cheek is bathed in tears—
Still her heart is sore.
Vainly does she, night and morn,
Pace the dreary braes and burn,
Watching for her love's return—
Donald is no more.
For in battle, &c.
O’er the mountain.
O'er the mountain, o'er the lea,
With my kilt and Saxon plaid,
And my tartan bonnet wee,
Will I seek my Highland lad.
O'er the mountain, &c.
Though the heather be my bed,
Brightly pearl'd with silvery dew,
There's a tear more bright I'll shed,
Oh! my Highland lad, for you.
O'er the mountain, &c.
Far awa' from love and home,
O'er the heath with blossom clad;
While the night-bird sings I'll roam,
Oh! for thee, my Highland lad.
Though the heather, &c.
O'er the mountain, &c.
The wood of Craigie-lea.
[Written by Tannahill, and set to music by his friend James Barr of Kilbarchan. Both the words and air are sweet and natural. Craigie-lea lies to the north-west of Paisley, but its rural beauties have been of late years encroached on by the erection of a gas-work in its vicinity.]
Thou bonnie wood of Craigie-lea,
Thou bonnie wood of Craigie-lea,
Near thee I pass'd life's early day,
And won my Mary's heart in thee.
The broom, the brier, the birken bush,
Bloom bonnie o'er the flowery lea,
An' a' the sweets that ane can wish
Frae nature's hand, are strew'd on thee.
Thou bonnie wood, &c.
Far ben thy dark-green planting's shade,
The cushat croodles am'rously,
The mavis, down thy buchted glade,
Gars echo ring frae every tree.
Thou bonnie wood, &c.
Awa', ye thoughtless, murd'ring gang,
Wha tear the nestlings ere they flee!
They'll sing you yet a canty sang,
Then, O in pity let them be!
Thou bonnie wood, &c.
When winter blaws in sleety showers,
Frae aff the Norlan' hills sae hie,
He lightly skiffs thy bonnie bowers,
As laith to harm a flower in thee.
Thou bonnie wood, &c.
