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The first half-stanza of this song is old; the rest is mine.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
Farewel to the Highlands, farewel to the North,
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth ;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love!

Farewel to the mountains high cover'd with snow;
Farewel to the straths and green vallies below:
Farewel to the forests and wild-hanging woods ;
Farewel to the to.rents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands a chasing the deer :
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.


THE first half stánza of this ballad is old.

The lovely lass o' Inverness,

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e’en and morn, she cries, alas!


the saut tear blins her ee.
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day,

A waefu' day it was to me;
For there I lost my father dear,

My father dear and brethren three!

Their winding sheet the bluidy clay,

Their graves are growing green to see;
And by them lies the dearest lad

That ever blest a woman's ee!
Now wae to thee thou cruel lord,

A bluidy man I trow thou be;
For mony a heart thou hast made sair,

That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee!

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This song

is Blacklock's.-I don't know how it came by the name, but the oldest appellation of the air was, Whistle and I'll come to you my lad.

It has little affinity to the tune commonly known by that name.


I COMPOSED this song as I convoyed my chest so far on the road to Greenock, where I was to embark in a few days for Jamaica.

I meant it as my farewel Dirge to my native land.

The gloomy night is gathering fast,
Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast;

* “ I had taken the last farewel of my few friends ; my chest was on the road to Greenock ; I had composed the last song I should ever measure in Caledonia, The gloomy Night is gathering fust.

Letter to Dr. Moore, vol. i. p. 35. Dr. Currie's ed.

Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o'er the plain :
The hunter now has left the moor,
The scattered coveys meet secure,
While here I wander, prest with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

The autumn mourns her rip’ning corn,
By early winter's ravage torn;
Across her placid, azure sky,
She sees the scowling tempest fly:
Chill runs my blood to hear it

I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonie banks of Ayr.

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'Tis not the surging billow's roar,
'Tis not that fatal, deadly shore;
Tho' death in every shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear
But round my heart the ties are bound;
That heart transpierc'd with many a wound,
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonie banks of Ayr.

Farewel, old Coila's hills and dales,
Her heathy moors and winding vales ;

The scenes where wretched fancy roves,
Pursuing past, unhappy loves !
Farewel, my friends ! farewel my foes !
My peace with these, my love with those !
The bursting tears my heart declare,
Farewel, the bonie banks of Ayr!


I PICKED up this old song and tune from a country girl in Nithsdale.--I never met with it elsewhere in Scotland.

Whare are you gaun, my bonie lass,

Where are you gaun, my hinnie,
She answer'd me right saucilie,

An errand for my minnie.

O whare live ye, my bonie lass,

O whare live ye, my hinnie,
By yon burn-side, gin ye maun ken,
In a wee house wi'



A watchful mother.

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