Donald Ross.
By James McIntyre
By the side of a moss
Lived young Donald Ross,
Among the heathery hills
And the mountain rills,
In a snug little cot
Content with his lot
He never knew sorrow
With his wife and wee Flora.
But an order went forth
O'er the land of the north,
To burn many a home
So the wild deer might roam,
With grief he then did toss
Every night Donald Ross,
And sad seemed the morrow
For his wife and sma' Flora.
O it was a cruel deed
But nobles do not heed
The sorrows of the poor
Drove on a barren moor,
Where he wove a wreath
Of the blooming heath,
For to crown with glory
The brow of little Flory.
He then bade farewell
To his mountain dell,
Where his fathers appears
Had lived a thousand years,
With their few goats and sheep
Which feed on hills so steep,
O it was a sad story
For bonnie little Flory.
He sought a distant strand,
In Canada bought land,
To him a glorious charm
To view his own broad farm,
His horses and his cows,
Cultivators and plows,
And now his daughter Flora
She is the flower of Zorra.