They bore within their breasts the grief That fame can never heal- That deep, unutterable woe Which none save exiles feel.
Nowhere beats the heart so kindly as beneath the tartan plaid!
Fhairshon had a son, Who married Noah's daughter, And nearly spoiled to Flood, By trinking up ta water: Which he would have done, I at least believe it, Had the mixture peen Only half Glenlivet.
Do not lift him from the bracken, Leave him lying where he fell- Better bier ye cannot fashion: None beseems him half so well As the bare and broken heather, And the hard and trampled sod, Whence his angry soul ascended To the judgment seat of God!
Fhairshon swore a feud Against the clan M,Tavish; Marched into their land To murder and to rafish; For he did resolve To extirpate the vipers, With four-and-twenty men And five-and-thirty pipers.
He is coming! He is coming! Like a bridegroom from his room, Came the hero from his prison To the scaffold and the doom.
Give me but one hour of Scotland, Let me see it ere I die.
The earth is all the home I have, the heavens my wide roof-tree
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