John Munro was born in 1791, in the parish of Criech, Sutherlandshire. His father was superintendent of a manufacturing establishment. On the premature death of her husband, his mother proceeded to Glasgow, where the family were enabled to obtain a suitable education. In 1827, the poet commenced business as an accountant. The hours of relaxation from business he sedulously devoted to the concerns of literature, especially poetry. He produced some religious tracts, and composed verses, chiefly of a devotional character. He died in 1837, and his remains were consigned to the Necropolis of the city. Admiring friends reared an appropriate monument over his grave.
"My dearest, wilt thou follow,
And mount with me the billow?
Wilt thou with me pass o'er the sea
To the land of hill and hollow?"
"No, Highlandman! I leave not
My kindred for another,
Nor go with thee across the sea
From the children of my mother.
"No, Highlandman! I will not fly
My own beloved border;
For poortith dwells and famine pales
In your Highlands of disorder.
"I will not wed a Gael—
His house is but a shieling;
Oh, best unborn, than all forlorn
Mid your crags to have my dwelling!"
"The house I call mine own house,
A better was not born in;
And land and sea will smile on thee,
In the Highlands of thy scorning.
"I do not boast the wheaten wealth
Of our glens and hills, my dearie!
But enow is health, and grass is wealth,
In the land of mead and dairy.
"I 've store of kine, my darling,
Nor any lilting sweeter
Thine ear can know, than is their low,
And the music of the bleater.
"I have no ship on ocean
With merchant treasure sailing;
But my tight boat, and trusty net,
Whole loads of fish are trailing.
"And, for dress, is none, my beauty,
Than the tartan plaiding warmer,
For its colours bright, oh, what delight
To see them deck my charmer!
"And ne'er was Highland welcome
More hearty than thy greeting,
Each day, the rein, and courteous swain,
Thy pleasure will be meeting.
"And thou shalt wear the healthy hue
That give the Highland breezes,
And not a bird but will be heard
To sing the song that pleases.
"No summer morn is blyther,
With all its burst of glory,
Than the heaving breast, that, uncaress'd,
Pined—shall, caress'd, adore thee."
"Stay, Highlander! my heart, my hand,
My vow and all I render,
A Highland lay has won the day,
And I will hie me yonder."
