Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse; Since honour commands me, how can I refuse? Without it, I ne’er can have merit for thee; And, wanting thy favour, I’d better not be. I gae then, my lass, to win glory and fame; And if I should chance to come glorious hame, I’ll bring a heart to thee with love running o’er, And then I’ll leave thee and Lochaber no more. _Allan Ramsay._ ELLIOT CXXIX THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST A LAMENT FOR FLODDEN I’ve heard the liltin’ at our ewe-milkin’, Lasses a liltin’ before dawn o’ day; But now there’s a moanin’ on ilka green loanin’, The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away. At buchts in the mornin’, nae blythe lads are scornin’, Lasses are lanely, and dowie, and wae; Nae daffin’, nae gabbin’, but sighin’ and sabbin’, Ilk ane lifts her laiglin and hies her away. In har’st at the shearin’, nae youths now are jeerin’, The bandsters are runkled, and lyart and gray; At fair or at preachin’, nae wooin’, nae fleechin’,-- The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away. At e’en, in the gloamin’, nae swankies are roamin’ ’Bout stacks, ’mang the lassies at bogle to play; But each ane sits dreary, lamentin’ her dearie,-- The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away. Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border! The English for ance by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land now lie cauld in the clay. We’ll hear nae mair liltin’ at our ewe-milkin’, Women and bairns are dowie and wae; Sighin’ and moanin’ on ilka green loanin’,-- The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away. _Jean Elliott._ GRANT CXXX THE HIGHLAND LADDIE O where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone? O where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone? He’s gone with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done, And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home. O where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay? O where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay? He dwelt beneath the holly trees, beside the rapid Spey, And many a blessing follow’d him, the day he went away. O what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear? O what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear? A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war, And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall wear a star. Suppose, ah suppose, that some cruel, cruel wound Should pierce your Highland laddie, and all your hopes confound? The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly, The spirit of a Highland chief would lighten in his eye. But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland’s bonnie bounds, But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland’s bonnie bounds, His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds, While wide through all our Highland hills his warlike name resounds.