| |
| UP amang yon cliffy rocks | |
| Sweetly rings the rising echo | |
| To the maid that tends the goats, | |
| Lilting o’er her native notes. | |
| Hark, she sings, “Young Sandy’s kind, | 5 |
| And he’s promised aye to lo’e me; | |
| Here’s a brooch I ne’er shall tine | |
| Till he’s fairly married to me. | |
| Drive away, ye drone, time, | |
| And bring about our bridal day. | 10 |
| |
| “Sandy herds a flock o’ sheep; | |
| Aften does he blaw the whistle | |
| In a strain sae saftly sweet, | |
| Lammies list’ning daurna bleat. | |
| He’s as fleet’s the mountain roe, | 15 |
| Hardy as the Highland heather, | |
| Wading through the winter snow, | |
| Keeping aye his flock together. | |
| But a plaid, wi’ bare houghs, | |
| He braves the bleakest norlin blast. | 20 |
| |
| “Brawly he can dance and sing | |
| Canty glee, or Highland cronach; | |
| Nane can ever match his fling | |
| At a reel, or round a ring. | |
| Wightly can he wield a rung; | 25 |
| In a brawl he’s aye the bangster; | |
| A’ his praise can ne’er be sung | |
| By the langest-winded sangster. | |
| Sangs that sing o’ Sandy | |
| Come short, though they were e’er sae lang.” | 30 |
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