Ye mountain streams that wimple free
Frae Pentland's heights to Forth's broad sea,
Ower heathy brae, by fernie lea,
Through glen or valley,
Come shed your kindred tears wi' me,—
Lone, lorn Bonaly!

Ye clouds encircling Pentland high,
Whether in orient robes ye fly,
Or in grey wreaths o' vapour lie,
Enshrouding a',
Dissolve in tears, and frae the sky,
In torrents fa'.

Ye winds that Pentland's summits sweep,
Now howling fierce round skelter'd steep,
Now wailing through the valleys deep,
In tones of woe,
O lull my weary soul asleep,
Wi' murmurs low;

Ye birdies, churmin' canty lays,
Ye lammies, bleatin' ower the braes,
Ye bairnies, wand'rin', gatherin' slaes
By my wee burn,
Weel may ye stand in dumb amaze,
Weel may ye mourn.

Nae ferlie gin ye mak your mane
For your dear lord and lover gane;
Nae ferlie gin I sing a strain
O' dolefu' sadness,
For him wha filled my hail domain
Wi' joyous gladness.

Nae mair that voice, whase tones sae clear,
Like heaven's ain music charmed the ear,
Shall offer genial welcomes here
To low and hie;
For Nature's worshippers were dear
To him and me.

Now closed that ee whase glances bricht
Shed kindness like the morning licht;
And powerless now that arm of micht,
Oppression's foe,
That, bared for freedom, truth, and richt,
Laid tyrants low.

Ah! weel I mind his laddie days,
When Brougham an' he first clamb my braes,
And poet Graham sang Sabbath lays
In my wee glen;
How high and pure their young thoughts raise;
How far their ken.

And when the bairns rose round his knee,
Oh! what a hame o' harmless glee
My banks and braes were wont to be;
Even Eden's sel'
Could scarce compare in joy wi' me
Ere Adam fell.

The Spring may clothe my leafy bowers,
The Summer deck my banks wi' flowers,
But sorrow wraps my grey-brow'd towers
In mournfu' weed,
Death's shadow ower me darkly lowers—
My lover's dead!