"I had liefer swim yon wild water, Though sair it be to bide, Than I wad stand at a strange man's hand, To be a strange man's bride." In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin. "I had liefer drink yon dark water, Wi' the stanes to make my bed, And the faem to hide me, and thou beside me, Than I wad see thee dead." In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin. He's kissed her twice, he's kissed her thrice, On cheek and lip and chin: He's wound her rein to his hand again, And lightly they leapt in. In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin. Their hearts were high to live or die, Their steeds were stark of limb: But the stream was starker, the spate was darker, Than man might live and swim. In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin. The first ae step they strode therein, It smote them foot and knee: But ere they wan to the mid water The spate was as the sea. In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin. But when they wan to the mid water, It smote them hand and head: And nae man knows but the wave that flows Where they lie drowned and dead. In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin. A JACOBITE'S FAREWELL 1716 There's nae mair lands to tyne, my dear, And nae mair lives to gie: Though a man think sair to live nae mair, There's but one day to die. For a' things come and a' days gane, What needs ye rend your hair? But kiss me till the morn's morrow, Then I'll kiss ye nae mair. O lands are lost and life's losing, And what were they to gie? Fu' mony a man gives all he can, But nae man else gives ye. Our king wons ower the sea's water, And I in prison sair: But I'll win out the morn's morrow, And ye'll see me nae mair. A JACOBITE'S EXILE 1746 The weary day rins down and dies, The weary night wears through: And never an hour is fair wi' flower, And never a flower wi' dew. I would the day were night for me, I would the night were day: For then would I stand in my ain fair land, As now in dreams I may. O lordly flow the Loire and Seine, And loud the dark Durance: But bonnier shine the braes of Tyne Than a' the fields of France; And the waves of Till that speak sae still Gleam goodlier where they glance. O weel were they that fell fighting On dark Drumossie's day: They keep their hame ayont the faem, And we die far away. O sound they sleep, and saft, and deep, But night and day wake we; And ever between the sea-banks green Sounds loud the sundering sea.