William Dudgeon (1753–1813)

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.”