| |
| ON Scotia’s plains, in days of yore, | |
| When lads and lasses tartan wore, | |
| Saft Music rang on ilka shore, | |
| In hamely weid; | |
| But Harmony is now no more, | 5 |
| And Music dead. | |
| |
| Round her the feather’d choir would wing, | |
| Sae bonnily she wont to sing, | |
| And sleely wake the sleeping string, | |
| Their sang to lead, | 10 |
| Sweet as the zephyrs of the spring; | |
| But now she’s dead. | |
| |
| Mourn ilka nymph and ilka swain, | |
| Ilk sunny hill and dowie glen; | |
| Let weeping streams and Naiads drain | 15 |
| Their fountain head; | |
| Let echo swell the dolefu’ strain, | |
| Since Music’s dead. | |
| |
| Whan the saft vernal breezes ca’ | |
| The grey-hair’d Winter’s fogs awa’, | 20 |
| Naebody then is heard to blaw, | |
| Near hill or mead, | |
| On chaunter or on aiten straw, | |
| Since Music’s dead. | |
| |
| Nae lasses now, on simmer days, | 25 |
| Will lilt at bleaching of their claes; | |
| Nae herds on Yarrow’s bonny braes, | |
| Or banks of Tweed, | |
| Delight to chant their hameil lays, | |
| Since Music’s dead. | 30 |
| |
| At gloamin’, now, the bagpipe’s dumb, | |
| Whan weary owsen hameward come; | |
| Sae sweetly as it wont to bum, | |
| And pibrachs skreed; | |
| We never hear its warlike hum, | 35 |
| For Music’s dead. | |
| |
| Macgibbon’s gane: Ah! waes my heart! | |
| The man in music maist expert, | |
| Wha cou’d sweet melody impart, | |
| And tune the reed, | 40 |
| Wi’ sic a slee and pawky art; | |
| But now he’s dead. | |
| |
| Ilk carline now may grunt and grane, | |
| Ilk bonny lassie make great mane; | |
| Since he’s awa’, I trow there’s nane | 45 |
| Can fill his stead; | |
| The blythest sangster on the plain! | |
| Alake, he’s dead! | |
| |
| Now foreign sonnets bear the gree, | |
| And crabbit queer variety | 50 |
| Of sounds fresh sprung frae Italy, | |
| A bastard breed! | |
| Unlike that saft-tongu’d melody | |
| Which now lies dead. | |
| |
| Can lav’rocks at the dawning day, | 55 |
| Can linties chirming frae the spray, | |
| Or todling burns that smoothly play | |
| O’er gowden bed, | |
| Compare wi’ Birks of Indermay? | |
| But now they’re dead. | 60 |
| |
| O Scotland! that cou’d yence afford | |
| To bang the pith of Roman sword, | |
| Winna your sons, wi’ joint accord, | |
| To battle speed, | |
| And fight till Music be restor’d, | 65 |
| Which now lies dead? | |
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