Page:Heaving of the lead.pdf/4

 My ardent passion prove;

Lash'd to the helm,

Should seas o’erwhelm,

I’d think on thee, my love.

But should the gracious pow'rs be kind,

Dispel the gloom, and still the wind,

And waft me to thy arms once more,

Safe to my long lost native shore.

No more the main

I'd tempt again,

But tender joys improve;

I then with thee

Should happy be,

And think on nought but love.





Forlorn, amang the Highland hills,

'Midst nature’s wildest grandeur,

By rocky dens, and woody glens,

With weary steps I wander.

The langsome way, the darksome day,

The mountain mist so rainy,

Are nought to me when gaun to thee,

Sweet Lass o’ Arranteenie!