The great Argyle led on his files,I wat they glanced twenty miles;They hough'd the clans like nine-pin kyles,They hack'd and hash'd,while braid-swords,clash'd,And thro'they dash'd,and hew'd and smash'd,Till fey men died awa,man.
La,la,la,la,&c.
But had ye seen the philibegs,And skyrin tartan trews,man;When in the teeth they dar'd our Whigs,And covenant True-blues,man:
In lines extended lang and large,When baiginets o'erpower'd the targe,And thousands hasten'd to the charge;Wi'Highland wrath they frae the sheath Drew blades o'death,till,out o'breath,They fled like frighted dows,man!
La,la,la,la,&c.
"O how deil,Tam,can that be true?
The chase gaed frae the north,man;
I saw mysel,they did pursue,The horsemen back to Forth,man;And at Dunblane,in my ain sight,They took the brig wi'a'their might,And straught to Stirling wing'd their flight;But,cursed lot!the gates were shut;
And mony a huntit poor red-coat,For fear amaist did swarf,man!"La,la,la,la,&c.
My sister Kate cam up the gate Wi'crowdie unto me,man;She swoor she saw some rebels run To Perth unto Dundee,man;Their left-hand general had nae skill;
The Angus lads had nae gude will That day their neibors'blude to spill;For fear,for foes,that they should lose Their cogs o'brose;they scar'd at blows,And hameward fast did flee,man.
La,la,la,la,&c.
They've lost some gallant gentlemen,Amang the Highland clans,man!
I fear my Lord Panmure is slain,Or fallen in Whiggish hands,man,Now wad ye sing this double fight,Some fell for wrang,and some for right;But mony bade the world gude-night;
Then ye may tell,how pell and mell,By red claymores,and muskets knell,Wi'dying yell,the Tories fell,And Whigs to hell did flee,man.
La,la,la,la,&c.
The Braes O'Killiecrankie Where hae ye been sae braw,lad?
Whare hae ye been sae brankie,O?
Whare hae ye been sae braw,lad?
Cam ye by Killiecrankie,O?
Chorus.-An ye had been whare I hae been,Ye wad na been sae cantie,O;An ye had seen what I hae seen,I'the Braes o'Killiecrankie,O.
I faught at land,I faught at sea,At hame I faught my Auntie,O;But I met the devil an'Dundee,On the Braes o'Killiecrankie,O.
An ye had been,&c.
The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr,An'Clavers gat a clankie,O;Or I had fed an Athole gled,On the Braes o'Killiecrankie,O.
An ye had been,&c.
Awa'Whigs,Awa'
Chorus.-Awa'Whigs,awa'!
Awa'Whigs,awa'!
Ye're but a pack o'traitor louns,Ye'll do nae gude at a'.
Our thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair,And bonie bloom'd our roses;But Whigs cam'like a frost in June,An'wither'd a'our posies.
Awa'Whigs,&c.
Our ancient crown's fa'en in the dust-
Deil blin'them wi'the stoure o't!
An'write their names in his black beuk,Wha gae the Whigs the power o't.
Awa'Whigs,&c.
Our sad decay in church and state Surpasses my descriving:
The Whigs cam'o'er us for a curse,An'we hae done wi'thriving.
Awa'Whigs,&c.
Grim vengeance lang has taen a nap,But we may see him wauken:
Gude help the day when royal heads Are hunted like a maukin!
Awa'Whigs,&c.
A Waukrife Minnie Whare are you gaun,my bonie lass,Whare are you gaun,my hinnie?
She answered me right saucilie,"An errand for my minnie."O whare live ye,my bonie lass,O whare live ye,my hinnie?
"By yon burnside,gin ye maun ken,In a wee house wi'my minnie."But I foor up the glen at e'en.
To see my bonie lassie;
And lang before the grey morn cam,She was na hauf sae saucie.
O weary fa'the waukrife cock,And the foumart lay his crawin!
He wauken'd the auld wife frae her sleep,A wee blink or the dawin.
An angry wife I wat she raise,And o'er the bed she brocht her;And wi'a meikle hazel rung She made her a weel-pay'd dochter.
O fare thee weel,my bonie lass,O fare thee well,my hinnie!
Thou art a gay an'a bonnie lass,But thou has a waukrife minnie.
The Captive Ribband tune-"Robaidh dona gorach."Dear Myra,the captive ribband's mine,'Twas all my faithful love could gain;And would you ask me to resign The sole reward that crowns my pain?
Go,bid the hero who has run Thro'fields of death to gather fame,Go,bid him lay his laurels down,And all his well-earn'd praise disclaim.
The ribband shall its freedom lose-
Lose all the bliss it had with you,And share the fate I would impose On thee,wert thou my captive too.
It shall upon my bosom live,Or clasp me in a close embrace;And at its fortune if you grieve,Retrieve its doom,and take its place.
My Heart's In The Highlands tune-"Failte na Miosg."Farewell to the Highlands,farewell to the North,The birth-place of Valour,the country of Worth;Wherever I wander,wherever I rove,The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
Chorus.-My heart's in the Highlands,my heart is not here,My heart's in the Highlands,a-chasing the deer;Chasing the wild-deer,and following the roe,My heart's in the Highlands,wherever I go.
Farewell to the mountains,high-cover'd with snow,Farewell to the straths and green vallies below;Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods,Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart's in the Highlands,&c.
The Whistle-A Ballad I sing of a Whistle,a Whistle of worth,I sing of a Whistle,the pride of the North.
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish King,And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring.
Old Loda,still rueing the arm of Fingal,The god of the bottle sends down from his hall-"The Whistle's your challenge,to Scotland get o'er,And drink them to hell,Sir!or ne'er see me more!"Old poets have sung,and old chronicles tell,What champions ventur'd,what champions fell:
The son of great Loda was conqueror still,And blew on the Whistle their requiem shrill.
Till Robert,the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,Unmatch'd at the bottle,unconquer'd in war,He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea;No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he.
Thus Robert,victorious,the trophy has gain'd;Which now in his house has for ages remain'd;Till three noble chieftains,and all of his blood,The jovial contest again have renew'd.
Three joyous good fellows,with hearts clear of flaw Craigdarroch,so famous for with,worth,and law;And trusty Glenriddel,so skill'd in old coins;And gallant Sir Robert,deep-read in old wines.
Craigdarroch began,with a tongue smooth as oil,Desiring Downrightly to yield up the spoil;Or else he would muster the heads of the clan,And once more,in claret,try which was the man.
"By the gods of the ancients!"Downrightly replies,"Before I surrender so glorious a prize,I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er."Sir Robert,a soldier,no speech would pretend,But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe,or his friend;Said,"Toss down the Whistle,the prize of the field,"And,knee-deep in claret,he'd die ere he'd yield.
To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;But,for wine and for welcome,not more known to fame,Than the sense,wit,and taste,of a sweet lovely dame.
A bard was selected to witness the fray,And tell future ages the feats of the day;A Bard who detested all sadness and spleen,And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been.
The dinner being over,the claret they ply,And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy;In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set,And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet.
Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er:
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core,And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn,Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn.
Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night,When gallant Sir Robert,to finish the fight,Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red,And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor did.
Then worthy Glenriddel,so cautious and sage,No longer the warfare ungodly would wage;A high Ruling Elder to wallow in wine;
He left the foul business to folks less divine.
The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end;But who can with Fate and quart bumpers contend!
Though Fate said,a hero should perish in light;So uprose bright Phoebus-and down fell the knight.
Next uprose our Bard,like a prophet in drink:-"Craigdarroch,thou'lt soar when creation shall sink!
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme,Come-one bottle more-and have at the sublime!
"Thy line,that have struggled for freedom with Bruce,Shall heroes and patriots ever produce:
So thine be the laurel,and mine be the bay;The field thou hast won,by yon bright god of day!"To Mary In Heaven Thou ling'ring star,with lessening ray,That lov'st to greet the early morn,Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary!dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
That sacred hour can I forget,Can I forget the hallow'd grove,Where,by the winding Ayr,we met,To live one day of parting love!
Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past,Thy image at our last embrace,Ah!little thought we 'twas our last!
Ayr,gurgling,kiss'd his pebbled shore,O'erhung with wild-woods,thickening green;The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar,'Twin'd amorous round the raptur'd scene:
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,The birds sang love on every spray;Till too,too soon,the glowing west,Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.
Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,And fondly broods with miser-care;Time but th'impression stronger makes,As streams their channels deeper wear,My Mary!dear departed shade!
Where is thy blissful place of rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
Epistle To Dr.Blacklock Ellisland,21st Oct.,1789.
Wow,but your letter made me vauntie!
And are ye hale,and weel and cantie?
I ken'd it still,your wee bit jauntie Wad bring ye to:
Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye!
And then ye'll do.
The ill-thief blaw the Heron south!
And never drink be near his drouth!
He tauld myself by word o'mouth,He'd tak my letter;I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth,And bade nae better.
But aiblins,honest Master Heron Had,at the time,some dainty fair one To ware this theologic care on,And holy study;And tired o'sauls to waste his lear on,E'en tried the body.
But what d'ye think,my trusty fere,I'm turned a gauger-Peace be here!
Parnassian queans,I fear,I fear,Ye'll now disdain me!
And then my fifty pounds a year Will little gain me.
Ye glaikit,gleesome,dainty damies,Wha,by Castalia's wimplin streamies,Lowp,sing,and lave your pretty limbies,Ye ken,ye ken,That strang necessity supreme is 'Mang sons o'men.
I hae a wife and twa wee laddies;
They maun hae brose and brats o'duddies;Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is-
I need na vaunt But I'll sned besoms,thraw saugh woodies,Before they want.
Lord help me thro'this warld o'care!
I'm weary sick o't late and air!
Not but I hae a richer share Than mony ithers;But why should ae man better fare,And a'men brithers?
Come,Firm Resolve,take thou the van,Thou stalk o'carl-hemp in man!
And let us mind,faint heart ne'er wan A lady fair:
Wha does the utmost that he can,Will whiles do mair.
But to conclude my silly rhyme (I'm scant o'verse and scant o'time),To make a happy fireside clime To weans and wife,That's the true pathos and sublime Of human life.
My compliments to sister Beckie,And eke the same to honest Lucky;I wat she is a daintie chuckie,As e'er tread clay;And gratefully,my gude auld cockie,I'm yours for aye.
Robert Burns.
The Five Carlins An Election Ballad.
tune-"Chevy Chase."
There was five Carlins in the South,They fell upon a scheme,To send a lad to London town,To bring them tidings hame.
Nor only bring them tidings hame,But do their errands there,And aiblins gowd and honor baith Might be that laddie's share.
There was Maggy by the banks o'Nith,A dame wi'pride eneugh;And Marjory o'the mony Lochs,A Carlin auld and teugh.
And blinkin Bess of Annandale,That dwelt near Solway-side;And whisky Jean,that took her gill,In Galloway sae wide.
And auld black Joan frae Crichton Peel,^1O'gipsy kith an'kin;
Five wighter Carlins were na found The South countrie within.
To send a lad to London town,They met upon a day;And mony a knight,and mony a laird,This errand fain wad gae.
O mony a knight,and mony a laird,This errand fain wad gae;But nae ane could their fancy please,O ne'er a ane but twae.
The first ane was a belted Knight,Bred of a Border band;^2And he wad gae to London town,Might nae man him withstand.
And he wad do their errands weel,And meikle he wad say;And ilka ane about the court Wad bid to him gude -day.
[Footnote 1:Sanquhar.]
[Footnote 2:Sir James Johnston of Westerhall.]
The neist cam in a Soger youth,^3
Who spak wi'modest grace,And he wad gae to London town,If sae their pleasure was.
He wad na hecht them courtly gifts,Nor meikle speech pretend;But he wad hecht an honest heart,Wad ne'er desert his friend.
Now,wham to chuse,and wham refuse,At strife thir Carlins fell;For some had Gentlefolks to please,And some wad please themsel'.
Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg o'Nith,And she spak up wi'pride,And she wad send the Soger youth,Whatever might betide.
For the auld Gudeman o'London court^4
She didna care a pin;
But she wad send the Soger youth,To greet his eldest son.^5Then up sprang Bess o'Annandale,And a deadly aith she's ta'en,That she wad vote the Border Knight,Though she should vote her lane.
"For far-off fowls hae feathers fair,And fools o'change are fain;But I hae tried the Border Knight,And I'll try him yet again."Says black Joan frae Crichton Peel,A Carlin stoor and grim.
"The auld Gudeman or young Gudeman,For me may sink or swim;[Footnote 3:Captain Patrick Millar of Dalswinton.]
[Footnote 4:The King.]
[Footnote 5:The Prince of Wales.]
For fools will prate o'right or wrang,While knaves laugh them to scorn;But the Soger's friends hae blawn the best,So he shall bear the horn."Then whisky Jean spak owre her drink,"Ye weel ken,kimmers a',The auld gudeman o'London court,His back's been at the wa';"And mony a friend that kiss'd his caup Is now a fremit wight;But it's ne'er be said o'whisky Jean-
We'll send the Border Knight."
Then slow raise Marjory o'the Lochs,And wrinkled was her brow,Her ancient weed was russet gray,Her auld Scots bluid was true;"There's some great folk set light by me,I set as light by them;But I will send to London town Wham I like best at hame."Sae how this mighty plea may end,Nae mortal wight can tell;God grant the King and ilka man May look weel to himsel.
Election Ballad For Westerha'
tune-"Up and waur them a',Willie."
The Laddies by the banks o'Nith Wad trust his Grace^1wi a',Jamie;But he'll sair them,as he sair'd the King-Turn tail and rin awa',Jamie.
[Footnote 1:The fourth Duke of Queensberry,who supported the proposal that,during George III's illness,the Prince of Wales should assume the Government with full prerogative.]
Chorus.-Up and waur them a',Jamie,Up and waur them a';The Johnstones hae the guidin o't,Ye turncoat Whigs,awa'!
The day he stude his country's friend,Or gied her faes a claw,Jamie,Or frae puir man a blessin wan,That day the Duke ne'er saw,Jamie.
Up and waur them,&c.
But wha is he,his country's boast?
Like him there is na twa,Jamie;
There's no a callent tents the kye,But kens o'Westerha',Jamie.
Up and waur them,&c.
To end the wark,here's Whistlebirk,Lang may his whistle blaw,Jamie;And Maxwell true,o'sterling blue;
And we'll be Johnstones a',Jamie.
Up and waur them,&c.
Prologue Spoken At The Theatre Of Dumfries On New Year's Day Evening,1790.
No song nor dance I bring from yon great city,That queens it o'er our taste-the more's the pity:
Tho'by the bye,abroad why will you roam?
Good sense and taste are natives here at home:
But not for panegyric I appear,I come to wish you all a good New Year!
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye,Not for to preach,but tell his simple story:
The sage,grave Ancient cough'd,and bade me say,"You're one year older this important day,"If wiser too-he hinted some suggestion,But 'twould be rude,you know,to ask the question;And with a would-be roguish leer and wink,Said-"Sutherland,in one word,bid them Think!"Ye sprightly youths,quite flush with hope and spirit,Who think to storm the world by dint of merit,To you the dotard has a deal to say,In his sly,dry,sententious,proverb way!
He bids you mind,amid your thoughtless rattle,That the first blow is ever half the battle;That tho'some by the skirt may try to snatch him,Yet by the foreclock is the hold to catch him;That whether doing,suffering,or forbearing,You may do miracles by persevering.
Last,tho'not least in love,ye youthful fair,Angelic forms,high Heaven's peculiar care!
To you old Bald-pate smoothes his wrinkled brow,And humbly begs you'll mind the important-Now!
To crown your happiness he asks your leave,And offers,bliss to give and to receive.
For our sincere,tho'haply weak endeavours,With grateful pride we own your many favours;And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it,Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it.