My Heart’s In The Highlands

     Tune—­“Failte na Miosg.”

     Farewell to the Highlands, farewell 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.

     Chorus.—­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.

     Farewell to the mountains, high-cover’d with snow,
     Farewell to the straths and green vallies below;
     Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods,
     Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
     My heart’s in the Highlands, &c.

The Whistle—­A Ballad

     I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth,
     I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North. 
     Was brought to the court of our good Scottish King,
     And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring.

     Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal,
     The god of the bottle sends down from his hall—­
     “The Whistle’s your challenge, to Scotland get o’er,
     And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne’er see me more!”

     Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,
     What champions ventur’d, what champions fell: 
     The son of great Loda was conqueror still,
     And blew on the Whistle their requiem shrill.

     Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,
     Unmatch’d at the bottle, unconquer’d in war,
     He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea;
     No tide of the Baltic e’er drunker than he.

     Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain’d;
     Which now in his house has for ages remain’d;
     Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,
     The jovial contest again have renew’d.

     Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw
     Craigdarroch, so famous for with, worth, and law;
     And trusty Glenriddel, so skill’d in old coins;
     And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.

     Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,
     Desiring Downrightly to yield up the spoil;
     Or else he would muster the heads of the clan,
     And once more, in claret, try which was the man.

     “By the gods of the ancients!” Downrightly replies,
     “Before I surrender so glorious a prize,
     I’ll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,
     And bumper his horn with him twenty times o’er.”

     Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend,
     But he ne’er turn’d his back on his foe, or his friend;
     Said, “Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field,”
     And, knee-deep in claret, he’d die ere he’d yield.