His banes were weary, his een were dim, (Sweet fruits are sair to gather) And nae man lived and had mind of him: And the wind wears owre the heather. "O whatten a wreck wad they seek on land" (Sweet fruits are sair to gather) "That they houk the turf to the seaward hand?" And the wind wears owre the heather. "O whatten a prey wad they think to take" (Sweet fruits are sair to gather) "That they delve the dykes for a dead man's sake?" And the wind wears owre the heather. A bane of the dead in his hand he's tane; Sweet fruits are sair to gather: And the red blood brak frae the dead white bane. And the wind wears owre the heather. He's cast it forth of his auld faint hand; Sweet fruits are sair to gather: And the red blood ran on the wan wet sand. And the wind wears owre the heather. "O whatten a slayer is this," they said, (Sweet fruits are sair to gather) "That the straik of his hand should raise his dead?" And the wind wears owre the heather. "O weel is me for the sign I take" (Sweet fruits are sair to gather) "That now I may die for my auld sin's sake." And the wind wears owre the heather. "For the dead was in wait now fifty year," (Sweet fruits are sair to gather) "And now shall I die for his blood's sake here." And the wind wears owre the heather. JACOBITE SONG Now who will speak, and lie not, And pledge not life, but give? Slaves herd with herded cattle: The dawn grows bright for battle, And if we die, we die not; And if we live, we live. The faith our fathers fought for, The kings our fathers knew, We fight but as they fought for: We seek the goal they sought for, The chance they hailed and knew, The praise they strove and wrought for, To leave their blood as dew On fields that flower anew. Men live that serve the stranger; Hounds live that huntsmen tame: These life-days of our living Are days of God's good giving Where death smiles soft on danger And life scowls dark on shame. And what would you do other, Sweet wife, if you were I? And how should you be other, My sister, than your brother, If you were man as I, Born of our sire and mother, With choice to cower and fly, And chance to strike and die? No churl's our oldworld name is, The lands we leave are fair: But fairer far than these are, But wide as all the seas are, But high as heaven the fame is That if we die we share.