Donald Ross.

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.