Neil MacDonald

“Whither away, O Neil MacDonald? Whither away so fleet hie ye?” “I have a tryst to keep, my mother, Under the boughs of the holly tree!” “Go ye not, O Neil MacDonald! Go ye not, prithee! prithee!” “I must keep the tryst, my mother, Under the boughs of the holly tree!” Into the night leaps Neil MacDonald; Every man has a weird to dree; He will dree his weird this Yule-tide Under the boughs of the holly tree. In the north the pale auroras Flash and waver spectrally; But the purple shadows slumber Under the boughs of the holly tree. Over the burn bounds Neil MacDonald; Through the bracken plunges he; He has won to the purple shadows Under the boughs of the holly tree. “O my love!” cries Neil MacDonald; “O my love! my love!” cries she; And their lips are met together Under the boughs of the holly tree. Bitter the frost upon the moor-side, Bitter the frost, but what recks he, With his arms about Fiorna Under the boughs of the holly tree! “What is that I hear, beloved? What is that dark shape I see?” “You but dream, my Neil MacDonald, Under the boughs of the holly tree.” “He dreams not, your Neil MacDonald, Sister, false as the falsest be!” Hark!—the clan-call of MacGregor Under the boughs of the holly tree! Hark!—the clan-call of MacGregor!— Every man has a weird to dree! He has dreed his, Neil MacDonald, Under the boughs of the holly tree.