MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS Tune-" Failte na Miosg." FAREWELL to the Highlands, farewell to the north, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. Chorus. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, Farewell to the mountains, high-cover'd with snow, THE WHISTLE-A BALLAD I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North. Was brought to the court of our good Scottish King, Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal, Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd; Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, "By the gods of the ancients!" Glenriddel replies, I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More, Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, But, for wine and for welcome, not more known to fame, A bard was selected to witness the fray, And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. The dinner being over, the claret they ply, And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy; In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, Gay Pleasures ran riot as bumpers ran o'er: Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; Next uprose our Bard, like a prophet in drink :— Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink! But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, Come-one bottle more-and have at the sublime! "Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce, Shall heroes and patriots ever produce: So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; TO MARY IN HEAVEN THOU ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where, by the winding Ayr, we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity can not efface Those records dear of transports past, Thy image at our last embrace, Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild-woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar, 'Twin'd amorous round the raptur'd scene: Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, My Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? EPISTLE TO DR. BLACKLOCK ELLISLAND, 21st Oct., 1789. Wow, but your letter made me vauntie! I ken'd it still, your wee bit jauntie Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye! The ill-thief blaw the Heron south! I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth, And bade nae better. But aiblins, honest Master Heron And holy study; And tried o' sauls to waste his lear on, But what d'ye think, my trusty fere, Ye'll now disdain me! And then my fifty pounds a year Will little gain me. Ye glaikit, gleesome, dainty damies, That strang necessity supreme is ’Mang sons o men. 1 I hae a wife and twa wee laddies; But I'll sned besoms, thraw saugh woodies, |