Page:Highland Harry.pdf/5

 Their waefa' fate what need I tell,

Right to the wrang did yield,

My Donald and his country fell

Upon Culloden field!

Ochon, ochon, oh, Donald, oh!

Ochon, ochon, ochrie!

Nae woman in this world wide,

Sae wretched now as me!

The sun raise sae rosy, the grey hills adorning,

Light sprung the lavrock and mounted fae hie,

When true to the tryst o' blyth May's dewy mornin',

My Jeanie cam linking out ower the green lea.

To mark her impatience, I crap 'mong the brakens,

Aft, aft to the kend gate she turn'd her black ee,

Then lying down dowylie, sighed by the willow tree,

"Ha me mohatel na dousku me."

Saft thro' the green birks I sta' to my jewel,

Streik'd on Spring's carpet aneath the saugh tree—

Think na, dear lassie, thy Willie's been cruel—

Ha me mohatel na dousku me.

Wi' love's warm sensations I've marked your impatience,

Lang hid 'mang the brakens I've watched your black ee—

You're no sleeping, pawkie Jean, open thy lovely e'en,

"Ha me mohatel na dousku me."