And aye as the canty shearers they Were coming home to their kale, The Laird and Knight from every wight "Ye's get the last drop in a' the house," They cried as they hurried in ; But ev'ry one at once began As passing under the pin: "O good Sir Thomas of Craigie, tak' The warlock Laird of Fail Away from me, for he never shall prie And they would have sung the same till yet, Had not the old Laird of Fail Drawn out the pin, before he went in, To drink of the shearers ale. THE BANISHED BARD. WRITTEN AT A SMALL VILLAGE IN THE HIGH LANDS OF PERTHSHIRE. 4 Ar break of day, when up the hills By smoke ascending, where the wight No pleasant object round can find; Grim Nature seems, in gloomy state, To mourn with me at Logierait. As Summer bids the verdure spring, And birds upon the bushes sing; The cattle, grazing on the land, Till I pass by, will gazing stand. But if I to the herdsman say, "Where is the road?" he runs away: Let any person now relate, Is it because I range around, Seeking, perhaps, what can't be found, I soon would give, without regret, But frowning Fate has fix'd me here, Among these rocky mountains drear; Ah! what a sad contrast I find, Of fields and friends I left behind! But I may still, in plaintive strain, Unto the passing wind complain; For social friend, or kindly mate, I've none, alas! at Logierait. THE INKS OF CRIE.* This tale that I tell you, ye shall trust it well, WHAT makes thee bleat around this dell, Thou woolly wand'rer of the hill? Comest thou to view this lonely cell, Where pines the forlorn stranger still? Ah! couldst thou list his plaintive tale, Compassion would awaken thee, *The banks of Cree, from Newton Stewart to the sea, are called the Inks. |