For helmet bright with steel and gold, And plumes that flout the sky, I 'll wear a soul of hardier mould, And thoughts that sweep as high. For scarf athwart my corslet cast, With her fair name y-wove; I 'll have her pictured in my breast, The ladye that I love.
No crested steed through battle throng Shall bear me bravely on, But pride shall make my spirit strong, Where honours may be won. Amidst the great of mind and heart, My prowess I will prove, And thus I 'll win, by gentler art, The ladye that I love.
Thou gentle and kind one, Who com'st o'er my dreams, Like the gales of the west, Or the music of streams; Oh, softest and dearest, Can that time e'er be, When I could be forgetful Or scornful of thee?
No! my soul might be dark, Like a landscape in shade, And for thee not the half Of its love be display'd, But one ray of thy kindness Would banish my pain, And soon kiss every feature To brightness again.
And if, in contending With men and the world, My eye might be fierce, Or my brow might be curl'd; That brow on thy bosom All smooth'd would recline, And that eye melt in kindness When turn'd upon thine.
If faithful in sorrow, More faithful in joy-- Thou shouldst find that no change Could affection destroy; All profit, all pleasure, As nothing would be, And each triumph despised Unpartaken by thee.
Oh, where are the pretty men of yore? Oh, where are the brave men gone? Oh, where are the heroes of the north? Each under his own gray stone. Oh, where now the broad bright claymore? Oh, where are the trews and plaid? Oh, where now the merry Highland heart? In silence for ever laid. Och on a rie, och on a rie, Och on a rie, all are gone; Och on a rie, the heroes of yore, Each under his own gray stone.
The chiefs that were foremost of old, Macdonald and brave Lochiel, The Gordon, the Murray, and the Graham, With their clansmen true as steel; Who follow'd and fought with Montrose, Glencairn, and bold Dundee; Who to Charlie gave their swords and their all, And would aye rather fa' than flee. Och on a rie, &c.
The hills that our brave fathers trod Are now to the stranger a store; The voice of the pipe and the bard Shall awaken never more. Such things it is sad to think on-- They come like the mist by day-- And I wish I had less in this world to leave, And be with them that are away. Och on a rie, &c.