Here ’s to them, to them that were here;
        Here ’s to them, to them that were here;
    Here ’s a tear and a sigh to the bliss that ’s gane by,
      But ’twas ne’er like what ’s coming, to last—­for ever. 
        Oh, bright was their morning sun! 
        Oh, bright was their morning sun! 
    Yet, lang ere the gloaming, in clouds it gaed down;
      But the storm and the cloud are now past—­for ever.

        Fareweel, fareweel! parting silence is sad;
        Oh, how sad the last parting tear! 
    But that silence shall break, where no tear on the cheek
      Can bedim the bright vision again—­no, never. 
      Then, speed to the wings of old Time,
      That waft us where pilgrims would be;
    To the regions of rest, to the shores of the blest,
      Where the full tide of glory shall flow—­for ever.

FAREWEEL, O FAREWEEL!

GAELIC AIR.

    Fareweel, O fareweel! 
      My heart it is sair;
    Fareweel, O fareweel! 
      I ’ll see him nae mair.

    Lang, lang was he mine,
      Lang, lang—­but nae mair;
    I mauna repine,
      But my heart it is sair.

    His staff ‘s at the wa’,
      Toom, toom is his chair! 
    His bannet, an’ a’! 
      An’ I maun be here!

    But oh! he ’s at rest,
      Why sud I complain? 
    Gin my soul be blest,
      I ’ll meet him again.

    Oh, to meet him again,
      Where hearts ne’er were sair! 
    Oh, to meet him again,
      To part never mair!

THE DEAD WHO HAVE DIED IN THE LORD.[68]

    Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament,
    Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent;
    But weep not for him who is gone to his rest,
    Nor mourn for the ransom’d, nor wail for the blest. 
    The sun is not set, but is risen on high,
    Nor long in corruption his body shall lie—­
    Then let not the tide of thy griefs overflow,
    Nor the music of heaven be discord below;
    Rather loud be the song, and triumphant the chord,
    Let us joy for the dead who have died in the Lord.

    Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament,
    Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent;
    But give to the living thy passion of tears
    Who walk in this valley of sadness and fears,
    Who are press’d by the combat, in darkness are lost,
    By the tempest are beat, on the billows are toss’d. 
    Oh, weep not for those who shall sorrow no more,
    Whose warfare is ended, whose combat is o’er;
    Let the song be exalted, be triumphant the chord,
    And rejoice for the dead who have died in the Lord.

[68] These stanzas are printed for the first time.  The MS. is not in Lady Nairn’s handwriting, but there is every reason to assign to her the authorship.