Page:Kate Dalrymple and The flowers of the forest (1).pdf/7



O this is no my plaid,

My plaid, my plaid,

O this is no my plaid,

Bonny though the colours be.

The ground of mine was mix’d wi’ blue,

I got it frae the lad I loe;

He ne’er has gi’en me cause to rue,

And O the plaid was dear to me.

Farewell ye lowland plaids o’ grey,

Nae kindly charms for me ye hae,

The tartan shall be mine for aye,

For O the colours dear to me.

For mine was silky, saft and warm,

It wrapped me round frae arm to arm,

And like myself it bore a charm,

And O ! the plaid is dear to me.

Although the lad the plaid who wore,

Is now upon a distant shore;

And cruel seas between us roar,

I’ll mind the plaid that sheltered me.

The lad that gi’ed me’t likes me weel,

Although his name I darna tell:

He likes me just as weel’s himse’;

And O the plaid is dear to me.

O may the plaidie yet be worn,

By Caledonians yet unborn,

Ill fa’ the wretch that e’er doth scorn,

The plaidie that’s sae dear to me.