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, 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. "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, 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. "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; 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." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON GOD by GABRIEL ROMANOVITCH DERZHAVIN THE PAUPER'S DRIVE by THOMAS NOEL THE CONVENT THRESHOLD by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI ON THE DISCOVERIES OF CAPTAIN LEWIS [JANUARY 14, 1807] by JOEL BARLOW |