My darling is the philabeg,
With scarlet hosen for the leg,
And the spotted curtal coat so trig,
And the head blue-bonneted.
The wimpled kilt be mine to wear,
Confusion take the breechen gear,
My limbs be fetterless and bare,
And not like Saxon donnot-led.[16]
Oh, well I love the _eididh_[17] free,
When it sends me bounding on the lea,
Or up the brae so merrily,
There's ne'er a darg that wonnet speed.
Give me the plaid, and on the hill
I 'll watch my turn, a se'ennight's spell,
And not a shiver from the chill
Shall pierce my trusty coverlet.
And for the tartan's lively flame,
In glen or clachan 'tis the same,
Alike it pleases lass and dame--
Unmatched its glories ever yet.
Be mine in Highland graith array'd,
With weapon trim the glens to tread,
And rise a stag of foremost head,
Then let him tent my culiver.
And when I marshal to the feast,
With deer-skin belt around my waist,
And in its fold a dirk embraced,
Then Roland match shall Oliver.