Up Among Yon Cliffy Rocks

Up among 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,
An' 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 norlan' blast.

"Brawly can he dance and sing,
Canty glee or Highland cronach;
Nane can ever match his fling,
At a reel or round a ring,
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,
Seem short, though they were e'er sae lang."