Low Germanie

As I sail'd past green Jura's isle,

Among the waters lone,

I heard a voice—a sweet low voice,

Atween a sigh and moan:

With ae babe at her bosom, and

Another at her knee,

A mother wail'd the bloody wars

In Low Germanie.

Oh woe unto these cruel wars

That ever they began,

For they have swept my native isle

Of many a pretty man:

For first they took my brethren twain,

Then wiled my love frae me.

Woe, woe unto the cruel wars

In Low Germanie.

I saw him when he sail'd away,

And furrow'd far the brine,

And down his foes came to the shore,

In many a glittering line:

The war-steeds rush'd amang the waves,

The guns came flashing free,

But could nae keep my gallant love

From Low Germanie.

Oh say, ye maidens, have ye seen,

When swells the battle cry,

A stately youth with bonnet blue

And feather floating high,—

An eye that flashes fierce for all,

But ever mild to me?

Oh that's the lad who loves me best

In Low Germanie.

Where'er the cymbal's sound is heard,

And cittern sweeter far,—

Where'er the trumpet blast is blown,

And horses rush to war;

The blithest at the banquet board,

And first in war is he,

The bonnie lad, whom I love best,

In Low Germanie.

I sit upon the high green land,

When mute the waters lie,

And think I see my true love's sail

Atween the sea and sky.

With ae bairn at my bosom, and

Another at my knee,

I sorrow for my soldier lad

In Low Germanie.