Yet, Margret bids those numbers flow
Which erst delighted every ear,
She cannot those sweet sounds forego
She cannot part with song so dear!
And should the minstrel’s tell-tale lyre
Prove echo to a faithful heart
Love may his Margret too inspire
With skill to sing a second part!
For yet, my friend, her promised hand
Wears not the little golden spell
The potent talismanic band
Which only with true love should dwell.
And tho’ yon pow’rful gloomy lord
Hath sought to win her for his bride
His wooing was with fire and sword
And foray on the border side!
And here the simple truth to tell
She has no heart for such a man.
Would Allan bring that “golden spell”
She’d brave Dunkeld, and all his clan!
Then if thou wilt the myrtle wear,
If love must breathe in every line
E’en sing the praises of thy fair
But Allan — let that praise be mine!