Page:Haughs of Crumdel (4).pdf/7

 When chilly breezes sweep the tide,

I’ll hap thee wi' my Highland Plaid.

Lowland lads may dress mair fine.

Woo in words mair-saft than mine;

Lowland lads hae mair o’ art,

A’ my boast’s an honest heart,

Whilk shall ever be my pride,—

To row thee in my Highland Plaid,

Bonnie lad ye’ve been sae leal,

My heart wad break at our farewell;

Lang your love has made me fain,

Tak me — tak me for your ain!

’Cross the Frith, away they glide,

Young Donald and his Lowland bride.

How blythe was I ilk morn to see,

My swain come o‘er the hill;

He leap’d the brook and flew to me,

I met him wi‘ gude will.

O the broom the bonny, bonny broom,

The broom of Cowdon knowes,

I wish I was with my dear swain,

Wi' his pipe and my ewes,