There was mickle love atween us twa-- Oh, twa could ne'er be fonder; And the thing on yird was never made, That could hae gart us sunder. But the way of heaven's aboon a' ken, And we maun bear what it likes to sen'-- It's comfort, though, to weary men, That the warst o' this warld's waes maun en'.
There's mony things that come and gae, Just kent, and just forgotten; And the flowers that busk a bonnie brae, Gin anither year lie rotten. But the last look o' that lovely e'e, And the dying grip she gae to me, They're settled like eternitie-- Oh, Mary! that I were wi' thee.
Can you lo'e, my dear lassie, The hills wild and free; Whar' the sang o' the shepherd Gars a' ring wi' glee? Or the steep rocky glens, Where the wild falcons bide? Then on wi' the tartan, And, fy, let us ride!
Can ye lo'e the knowes, lassie, That ne'er war in rigs? Or the bonnie loune lee, Where the sweet robin bigs? Or the sang o' the lintie, Whan wooin' his bride? Then on wi' the tartan, And, fy, let us ride!
Can ye lo'e the burn, lassie, That loups amang linns? Or the bonnie green howmes, Where it cannilie rins, Wi' a cantie bit housie, Sae snug by its side? Then on wi' the tartan, And, fy, let us ride!
The Rover o' Lochryan, he's gane, Wi' his merry men sae brave; Their hearts are o' the steel, an' a better keel Ne'er bowl'd owre the back o' a wave. Its no when the loch lies dead in his trough When naething disturbs it ava; But the rack and the ride o' the restless tide, Or the splash o' the gray sea-maw.
Its no when the yawl an' the light skiffs crawl Owre the breast o' the siller sea; That I look to the west for the bark I lo'e best, An' the rover that's dear to me, But when that the clud lays its cheek to the flud, An' the sea lays its shouther to the shore; When the win' sings high, and the sea-whaup's cry, As they rise frae the whitening roar.
Its then that I look to the thickening rook, An' watch by the midnight tide; I ken the wind brings my rover hame, An' the sea that he glories to ride. Oh, merry he sits 'mang his jovial crew, Wi' the helm heft in his hand, An' he sings aloud to his boys in blue, As his e'e's upon Galloway's land:
"Unstent and slack each reef an' tack, Gae her sail, boys, while it may sit; She has roar'd through a heavier sea afore, An' she'll roar through a heavier yet. When landsmen sleep, or wake an' creep, In the tempest's angry moan, We dash through the drift, and sing to the lift O' the wave that heaves us on."