Ben Nevis! Benavin! the brotherhood hoar,
That shout through the midnight to mighty Ben More,
Though lovely's this land of the lake and the tree, Yet the land of the scarred cliff and mountain for me, Each cairn has its story, each river its sang,
And the burnies are wimplin' to music alang,
But here nae auld ballad the young bosom thrills,
Nae
sang has made sacred thae forests and rills,
And often I croon o'er some auld Scottish strain,
'Till I'm roving the hills of my country again;
And O may she ever be upright and brave,
And ne'er let her furrows be turned by a slave,
And ne'er may dishonour the blue bonnet stain,
Altho' I should ne'er wear the bonnet again."
Hard was poor old Donald's fate,
In a strange land desolate;
Scarcely had he crossed the sea,
When his son, the last of three,
He the beautiful and brave,
Found an exile's nameless grave;
Then his wife, who was his pride,
Down at Point St. Charles died,
And he made for her a grave,
By the lone St. Lawrence wave;
And at last when all were gone,
Heartless, homeless, wandered on;
Still one comforter he found,
In poor Fleetfoot, his stag hound,
They had climbed the hills of heather,
They had chased the deer together,
And together they would mourn,
O'er days never to return.
After wandering far and near,
He built at last a cabin here,
'Twas at least a kind of home,
From it he would never roam;
Hoped afflictions all would cease,
And he'd end his days in peace,
Ah! poor Donald, 'twas God's will,
There was one affliction still,
That was wanting to fill up,
To the brim thy bitter cup;
And it came in loss of sight,
Leaving thee in endless night,
Helpless on a foreign shore,
Ne'er to see "Lochaber more.'
For a little while he pined,
But becoming more resigned,
Then he wandered far and wide,
With poor Fleetfoot for his guide;
In the Highland garb arrayed,
On the Highland pipe he played;
Ever at the welcome sound,
Youths and maidens gathered round;
More than fifty I have seen,
Dancing barefoot on the green,
Tripping it so light and gay,
To the merry tunes he'd play ;
While he blew with might and main,
Looking almost young again,
Playing up the old strathspeys,
With the heart of early days,
O to see him who could know,
He had ever tasted woe.
Thus for many years he went,
Round each backwood settlement,
But wherever he might roam,
This was still his house and home.
Always as the autumn ended,
Ere the sleety showers descended,
When the leaves were red and sere,
And the bitter days were near,
When the winds began to sigh,
And the birds away to fly,
And the frost came to the ground,
Donald's steps were homeward bound.
Long before he would appear,
The loud note of his pipe we'd hear,
At the glad, the welcome sound,
All the neighbours gathered round,
Many a young heart leaped for joy,
Many a happy little boy,
Bounded onward glad to meet,
Their old companion, faithful Fleet;
Then would Donald sit and tell,
Of the strange things that befel,
At the places where he played,
Of the friends his music made,
Of the hearts touched by his strains,
Of his triumphs and his gains,
Always ending with this song,
In the woods remembered long.
O sad was the heart of the old Highland piper,
When forced from the hills of Lochaber away,
No never to look on the lofty Benlomond,
Nor wander again on the banks of the Tay.
But still as sleep comes to my lone weary pillow,
I hear Corybrechtan again in my dreams,
I see the blue peaks of the lone cliffs of Jura,
And wander again by her wild dashing streams.
What tho' I must roam in the land of the stranger,
My heart's 'mong the hills of Lochaber the while, Tho' welcomed 'tis but in the tongue of the sassenach, 'Tis not the heart welcome they gie in Argyle.
They know not the heart of the old Highland piper, And little they think that it bleeds to the core,
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