Page:Peck o' maut.pdf/4

 And Science wails for Allan gone,

Since death's dark house haude a' the three.

Then Britons mourn for genius rare,

A victims to the barley-bree;

An bann the bree that coudna spare

The youthfu’ lives o' a’ the three.

O this is no my plaid,

My plaid, my plaid,

O this is no my plaid,

Bonny though the colours be.

The ground o' mine was mix'd wi’ blue,

I gat it frae the lad I lo'e,

He ne'er has gi'en me cause to rue,

And O! the plaid is dear to me.

Farewell ye lowland plaids o' grey,

Nae kindly charm for me ye hae,

The tartan shall be mine for aye,

For O! the colour's dear to me.

For mine was silky, soft an warm,

It wrapp'd me round frae arm to arm