The dews of Glen-sheerly,
That stream in the starlight
When kings do not ken;
And deep be your meed
Of the wine that is red,
To drink to your sire,
And his friend The M'Lean.

Come o'er the stream, Charlie,
Dear Charlie, brave Charlie;
Come o'er the stream, Charlie,
And dine with M'Lean;
If aught will invite you
Or more will delight you
'Tis ready, a troop of our bold Highlandmen,
All ranged on the heather,
With bonnet and feather,
Strong arms and broad claymores,
Three hundred and ten!


[56] I versified this song at Meggernie Castle, in Glen-Lyon, from a
scrap of prose said to be the translation, _verbatim_, of a Gaelic song,
and to a Gaelic air, sung by one of the sweetest singers and most
accomplished and angelic beings of the human race. But, alas! earthly
happiness is not always the lot of those who, in our erring estimation,
most deserve it. She is now no more, and many a strain have I poured to
her memory. The air is arranged by Smith.--See the "Scottish
Minstrel."--_Hogg._