Her hair was like the Cromla mist, When evening sun beams from the west, Bright was the eye of Morna; When beauty wept the warrior's fall, Then low and dark was Fingal's hall, Sad was the lovely Morna. O! lovely was the blue-eyed maid That sung peace to the warrior's shade, But none so fair as Morna. The hallow'd tears bedew'd the brake, That waved beside dark Orna's lake, Where wander'd lovely Morna. Sad was the hoary minstrel's song, That died the rustling heath among, Where sat the lovely Morna; It slumber'd on the placid wave, It echoed through the warrior's cave, And sigh'd again to Morna. The hero's plumes were lowly laid; In Fingal's hall each blue-eyed maid Sang peace and rest to Morna; The harp's wild strain was past and gone, No more it whisper'd to the moan Of lovely, dying Morna. O LEEZE ME ON THE BONNIE LASS. AIR--_"Hodgart's Delight."_ O leeze me on the bonnie lass That I lo'e best o' a'; O leeze me on my Marion, The pride o' Lockershaw. O weel I like my Marion, For love blinks in her e'e, And she has vow'd a solemn vow, She lo'es na ane but me. The flowers grow bonnie on the bank, Where doun the waters fa'; The birds sing bonnie in the bower, Where red, red roses blaw. An' there, wi' blythe and lightsome heart, When day has closed his e'e, I wander wi' my Marion, Wha lo'es na ane but me. Sic luve as mine an' Marion's, O, may it never fa'! But blume aye like the fairest flower, That grows in Lockershaw. My Marion I will ne'er forget Until the day I dee, For she has vow'd a solemn vow, She lo'es na ane but me. QUEEN MARY'S ESCAPE FROM LOCHLEVEN CASTLE. _Highland Boat-air._ Put off, put off, and row with speed, For now 's the time, and the hour of need! To oars, to oars, and trim the bark, Nor Scotland's queen be a warder's mark! Yon light that plays round the castle's moat Is only the warder's random shot! Put off, put off, and row with speed, For now is the time, and the hour of need! Those pond'rous keys[93] shall the kelpies keep, And lodge in their caverns dark and deep; Nor shall Lochleven's towers or hall, Hold thee, our lovely lady, in thrall; Or be the haunt of traitors, sold, While Scotland has hands and hearts so bold; Then, steersmen, steersmen, on with speed, For now is the time, and the hour of need! Hark! the alarum-bell hath rung, And the warder's voice hath treason sung; The echoes to the falconet's roar, Chime swiftly to the dashing oar. Let town, and hall, and battlements gleam, We steer by the light of the tapers' beam; For Scotland and Mary, on with speed, Now, now is the time, and the hour of need!