A Song

A SONG

Saw ye the glens, saw ye the rocks, Or saw ye bonny Harry Howie? On yonder hill he feeds his flocks, His flocks sae gay, himsel sae dowie.

Yes, I hae seen the glens, the rocks, And I've been wading through the heather; And there I spied a wand'ring flock, Their herd was gone I know not whither.

But hark! I hear a dismal choir Of bleating lambs, and shepherds mourning; Ah! Harry Howie is no more; No more wild echoes are returning.

An urchin sly has slain the youth, Has slain him with a bow and quiver; A fairer mind of spotless truth From such a form Death ne'er did sever.

Oft will I leave the festive train, And seek the glens and rocks sae dowie; There every zephyr shall explain What I have felt for Harry Howie.