Page:Highland piper's advice to drinkers (2).pdf/5

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Dark lowers the night o’er the wide stormy main, Till mild rosy morning rise cheerful again, Alas! morn returns to revisit the shore, But Connel returns to his Flora no more

For see on yon mountain the dark cloud of death, O’er Connel’s lone cottage lies low on the heath, While bloody and pale, on a far distant shore, He lies, to return to his Flora no more.

Ye light fleeting spirits that glide o’er yon steep, O would you but waft me across the wide deep! There fearless I’d mix in the battle’s loud roar— I’d die with my connel and leave him no more.

Here is the glen, and here the bower, All underneath the birchen shade; The village bell had tol’d the hour, O what can stay my lovley maid!