Reading Time: < 1 minute

Poem

WHOE’ER he be that sojourns here,
I pity much his case,
Unless he comes to wait upon
The Lord their God, His Grace.

There’s naething here but Highland pride,
And Highland scab and hunger:
If Providence has sent me here,
‘Twas surely in his anger.

Previous Poem
The Banks O’ Doon
Next Poem
The Bold Princess Royal