My darling is the philabeg, With scarlet hosen for the leg, And the spotted curtal coat so trig, And the head blue-bonneted.
The wimpled kilt be mine to wear, Confusion take the breechen gear, My limbs be fetterless and bare, And not like Saxon donnot-led.[16]
Oh, well I love the _eididh_[17] free, When it sends me bounding on the lea, Or up the brae so merrily, There's ne'er a darg that wonnet speed.
Give me the plaid, and on the hill I 'll watch my turn, a se'ennight's spell, And not a shiver from the chill Shall pierce my trusty coverlet.
And for the tartan's lively flame, In glen or clachan 'tis the same, Alike it pleases lass and dame-- Unmatched its glories ever yet.
Be mine in Highland graith array'd, With weapon trim the glens to tread, And rise a stag of foremost head, Then let him tent my culiver.
And when I marshal to the feast, With deer-skin belt around my waist, And in its fold a dirk embraced, Then Roland match shall Oliver.
[16] Hen-pecked (Sc.), from _donned_, silly woman.
John Campbell (Ian Bàn), overseer on the estate of Shirvain, Argyleshire, was born about the year 1705, in the parish of Glassary, in the same county. He was entirely uneducated in youth, and never attained any knowledge of the English language. Becoming intimately acquainted with the Scriptures in his vernacular language, he paraphrased many passages in harmonious verse; but, with the exception of fifteen hymns or sacred lays which were recovered from his recitation by the poet Duncan Kennedy, the whole have perished. The hymns of John Campbell retain much popularity among the Gael.
Oh, say not 'tis the March wind! 'tis a fiercer blast that drives The clouds along the heavens, 'tis a feller sweep that rives The image of the sun from man; a scowling tempest hurls Our world into a chaos, and still it whirls and whirls. It is the Boreal blast of sin, else all were meek and calm, And Creation would be singing still its old primeval psalm. Woe for the leaf of human life! it flutters in the sere, And what avails its dance in air, with dust and down-come near? That airy dance, what signifies the madness that inspires? The king, the clown, alike is borne along, alike expires. Come let us try another weird--the tempest let us chain; A bridle for the passions ho! for giant pride a rein! Thus quelleth grace the master-craft that was the cause of all The ruin that befell us in the whirlwind of the Fall.