R. L. S.

He hears nae mair the Sabbath bells
Borne on the breeze amang Lowden’s dells,
Nor waukens when the bugle tells
The dawn o’ day.

Fate was the flute the Ganger played,
Cheerin’ him on wi’ its hopes ahead;
Now “O’er the hills” the master’s laid
“An’ far away.”

Tho’ frail the bark, O he was brave,
Nor heedit the stormy winds that drave;
But lanely now the sailor’s grave
Across the faem.

The deer unhunted roam at will,
The whaup cries sair on the dreary hill,
The chase is o’er, the horn is still:
The hunter’s hame.