C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Alice Clare MacDonell
The Weaving of the Tartan
I
Weaving, weaving,
I saw an old dame weaving
A web of tartan fine.
“Sing high,” she said, “sing low,” she said,
“Wild torrent to the sea,
That saw my exiled bairnies torn
In sorrow far frae me.
And warp well the long threads,
The bright threads, the strong threads,
Woof well the cross threads,
To make the colors shine.”
Of valor done for Scotia’s need;
She wove in green, the laurel’s sheen,
In memory of her glorious dead.
She spake of Alma’s steep incline,
The desert march, the “thin red line”;
Of how it fired the blood and stirred the heart
Where’er a bairn of hers took part.
“’Tis for the gallant lads,” she said,
“Who wear the kilt and tartan plaid;
’Tis for the winsome lasses too,
Just like my dainty bells of blue:
So weave well the bright threads,
The red threads, the green threads,
Woof well the strong threads
That bind their hearts to mine.”
Sighing, sighing;
I saw an old dame sighing,
Beside a lonely glen.
“Sing high,” she said, “sing low,” she said,
“Wild tempest to the sea,
The wailing of the pibroch’s note,
That bade farewell to me.
And wae fa’ the red deer,
The swift deer, the strong deer,
Wae fa’ the cursed deer,
That take the place o’ men.”
Where’er the brightest realms of thought,
The artist’s skill, the martial thrill,
Be sure to Scotia’s land is wed.
She casts the glamour of her name
O’er Britain’s throne and statesman’s fame;
From distant lands ’neath foreign names,
Some brilliant son his birthright claims.
For ah! she has reared them mid tempests,
And cradled them in snow,
To give the Scottish arms their strength,
Their hearts a kindly glow.
So weave well the bright threads,
The red threads, the green threads,
Woof well the strong threads,
That bind their hearts to thine.