O but ye've been lang o' coming,
Lang o' coming, lang o' coming,
O but ye've been lang o' coming;
Welcome, royal Charlie !
Arouse, ilk valiant kilted clan,
Let Highland hearts lead on the van,
And charge the foe, claymore in hand,
For sake o' royal Charlie.
O welcome, Charlie, ower the main ;
Our Highland hills are a' your ain;
Thrice welcome to our isle again,
Our gallant royal Charlie!
Auld Scotia's sons, 'mang heather hills,
Can, fearless, face the warst of ills,
For kindred-fire ilk bosom fills,
At sight of royal Charlie.
Her ancient thistle wags her pow,
And proudly waves ower hill and knowe,
To hear our pledge and sacred vow,
To live or die wi' Charlie.
We daurna brew a peck o' maut,
But Geordie aye is finding faut;
We canna mak a pickle saut,
For want o' royal Charlie.
Then up and quaff, alang wi' me,
A bumper crowned wi' ten times three,
To him that's come to set us free;
Huzza for royal Charlie!
From a' the wilds o' Caledon,
We'll gather every hardy son,
Till thousands to his standard run,
And rally round Prince Charlie.^
Come let the flowing quech go round,
And boldly bid the pibroch sound,
Till every glen and rock resound
The name o' royal Charlie! *
*Copied, by Mr Thomson's kind permission, from his " Select Melodies of Scotland," (1822,) where it is stated to have been communicated to the editor in manuscript. The central part of the song was, however, printed several years before, as the composition of a gentleman of the
THE sun is sunk, the day is done,
E'en stars are setting, one by one;
Nor torch nor taper longer may
Eke out the pleasures of the day;
And, since, in social glee's despite,
It needs must be, Good night, good night!
The bride into her bower is sent,
The ribald rhyme and jesting spent ;
The lover's whispered words, and few,
Have bid the bashful maid adieu;
The dancing-floor is silent quite,
No foot bounds there, Good night, good night!
The lady in her curtained bed,
The herdsman in his wattled shed,
The clansman in the heathered hall,
Sweet sleep be with you, one and all!
We part in hope of days as bright
As this now gone-Good night, good night!
Sweet sleep be with us, one and all;
And if upon its stillness fall
The visions of a busy brain,
We'll have our pleasures o'er again,
To warm the heart, and charm the sight:
Gay dreams to all! Good night, good night!
THOUGH, for seven years and mair, honour should reave
To fields where cannons rair, thou needsna grieve thee;
For deep in my spirit thy sweets are indented;
And love shall preserve ay what love has imprinted.
Leave thee, leave thee, I'll never leave thee,
Gang the warld as it will, dearest, believe me!
Oh, Johnny, I'm jealous, whene'er ye discover
My sentiments yielding, ye'll turn a loose rover;
And nought in the world would vex my heart sairer,
If you prove inconstant, and fancy ane fairer.
Grieve me, grieve me, oh, it wad grieve me,
A' the lang night and day, if you deceive me!
My Nelly, let never sic fancies oppress ye;
For, while my blood's warm, I'll kindly caress ye:
Your saft blooming beauties first kindled love's fire,
Your virtue and wit mak it ay flame the higher.
Leave thee, leave thee, I'll never leave thee,
Gang the world as it will, dearest, believe me
Then, Johnny! I frankly this minute allow ye
To think me your mistress, for love gars me trow ye;
And gin ye prove false, to yoursell be it said, then,
Ye win but sma' honour to wrang a puir maiden.
Reave me, reave me, oh, it would reave me
Of my rest, night and day, if you deceive me!
Bid ice-shogles hammer red gauds on the studdy,
And fair summer mornings nae mair appear ruddy;
Bid Britons think ae gate, and when they obey thee,
But never till that time, believe I'll betray thee.
Leave thee, leave thee! I'll never leave thee!
The starns shall gae withershins ere I deceive thee!*
* From the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1724.
TUNE-The weary Pund o' Tow.
THE weary pund, the weary pund,
The weary pund o' tow;
I thought my wife wad end her life
Before she span her tow.
I bought my wife a stane o' lint,
As good as e'er did grow,
And a' that she could mak o' that
Was ae weary pund o' tow.
The weary pund, &c.
There sat a bottle in a bole,
Ayont the ingle low,
And aye she took the tither sook,
To drook the story tow.
The weary pund, &c.
For shame, said I, you dirty dame,
Gae spin your tap o' tow:
She took the roke, and, wi' a knock,
She brak it ower my pow.
The weary pund, &c.
At length her feet-I sang to see it -
Gaed foremost ower the knowe;
And ere I wed another jade
I'll wallop in a tow.
The weary pund, &c.†
Sic, in orig.; but the word, I believe, should be drack, which implies the act of making up a powdery, or other dry stuff, into a consistence by means of water. A woman, for instance, in baking oatmeal cakes, first dracks the meal with water.
† From Thomson's "Select Melodies of Scotland," 1822.
SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL, BART.
TUNE-Jenny's Bawbee.
I MET four chaps yon birks amang,
Wi' hinging lugs and faces lang:
I spiered at neebour Bauldy Strang,
Wha's thae I see?
Quo' he, ilk cream-faced pawky chiel,
Thought he was cunning as the deil,
And here they cam, awa to steal
Jenny's bawbee.
The first, a Captain to his trade,
Wi' skull ill-lined, but back weel-clad,
March'd round the barn, and by the shed,
And papped on his knee:
Quo' he, "My goddess, nymph, and queen,
Your beauty's dazzled baith my een !"
But deil a beauty he had seen
But-Jenny's bawbee.
A Lawyer neist, wi' blatherin gab,
Wha speeches wove like ony wab,
In ilk ane's corn aye took a dab,
And a' for a fee.
Accounts he owed through a' the town,
And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could drown, But now he thought to clout his goun
A Norland Laird neist trotted up,
Wi' bawsend nag and siller whup,
Cried, "There's my beast, lad, haud the grup,
What's gowd to me ?-I've walth o' lan'!
Bestow on ane o' worth your han' !"-
He thought to pay what he was awn
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