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.