Donald Ross

A Scottish - Canadian tale. By the side of 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 All that night, Donald Ross, And sad seemed the morrow For his wife and sma' Flora. Oh ! 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 fed on hills so steep. Oh, it was a sad story For bonnie little Flora. 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.