But for the discontented fool,
Who wants to be oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul,
And discontent devour him!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
May dool and sorrow be his chance,

And nane say, Wae's me for 'im!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And a' the ills that come frae France,
Whae'er he be that winna dance
The reel of Tullochgorum !*

THE BATTLE OF KILLIECRANKIE.+

CLAVERS and his Highlandmen

Came down upon the raw, man;
Who, being stout, gave mony a shout;
The lads began to claw, then.
Wi' sword and targe into their hand,
Wi' which they were na slaw, man;

Wi' mony a fearfu' heavy sigh,

The lads began to claw, then.

Ower bush, ower bank, ower ditch, ower stank,
She flang amang them a', man;

*Burns informs us, upon the authority of the author's son, the late Bishop Skinner of Aberdeen, that the old gentleman wrote this song at the request of a lady of the name of Montgomery, in whose house, at the town of Ellon, Aberdeenshire, he happened to be at the time on a visit. I have farther heard, that the opening lines refer to a dispute upon some matter of stale politics which took place that day after dinner, and which Mrs Montgomery attempted to put a stop to by asking for a song. She happened to observe, in the conversation which ensued, that the beautiful reel of Tullochgorum wanted words, and she suggested to Mr Skinner the propriety of his supplying the desideratum. He complied by, either that evening or next morning, producing the above song.

Fought on the 17th of July 1689, between the troops of King William, under General Mackay, and the Highland clans, who were commanded, for King James, by the celebrated Viscount Dundee, more commonly known in the south of Scotland by his patrimonial title, Graham of Claverhouse. The latter were triumphant, but with the loss of their brave leader.

The butter-box * gat mony knocks
Their riggings paid for a', then.
They got their paiks wi' sudden straiks,
Which, to their grief they saw, man;
Wi' clinkum-clankum ower their crowns,
The lads began to fa', then.

Her + leap'd about, her skipp'd about,
And flang amang them a', man;
The English blades got broken heads,

Their crowns were cleaved in twa, then ;
The durk and dour made their last hour,
And proved their final fa', man;
They thocht the devil had been there,
That play'd them sic a pa', man.

The Solemn League and Covenant
Cam whigging up the hill, man;
Thocht Highland trews durst not refuse
For to subscribe their bill, then:
In Willie's name, they thocht nae ane
Durst stop their course at a', man;
But Her-nain-sell, wi' mony a knock,
Cried, Furich, Whigs, awa, man.

Sir Evan Dhu, ‡ and his men true,
Cam linking up the brink, man;
The Hogan Dutch, they feared such,
They bred a horrid stink, then.
The true MacLean, and his fierce men,
Cam in amang them a', man;
Nane durst withstand his heavy hand;
A' fled and ran awa, then.

* Apparently a cant word for the skull.

The Highlanders have only one pronoun, and as it happens to resemble the English word her, it has caused the Lowlanders to have a general impression, that they mistake the feminine for the masculine gender. It has even become a sort of nick-name for them, as in the present case, and in a subsequent verse, where it is extended to-Her-nain-sell.

Sir Evan Cameron of Lochiel.

Och on a righ! och on a righ!
Why should she lose King Shames, man?
Och rig in di! och rig in di!

She shall break a' her banes, then ;
With furichinich, and stay a while,

And speak a word or twa, man; She's gie ye a straik out ower the neck, Before ye win awa, then.

Oh, fie for shame, ye're three for ane!
Her-nain-sell's won the day, man.
King Shames' red-coats should be hung up,
Because they ran awa, then.

Had they bent their bows like Highland trews,
And made as lang a stay, man,
They'd saved their king, that sacred thing,
And Willie 'd run awa, then. *

CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY KATY?

BURNS.

TUNE-Roy's Wife.

CANST thou leave me thus, my Katy?
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?
Well thou know'st my aching heart,
And canst thou leave me thus for pity?

Is this thy plighted fond regard,
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy?
Is this thy faithful swain's reward—
An aching, broken heart, my Katy?

Farewell! and ne'er such sorrows tear
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy !

* From Herd's Collection, 1776.

E

Thou may'st find those will love thee dear-
But not a love like mine, my Katy.

REPLY TO THE ABOVE.

*

[By a young English Gentlewoman. Found amongst Burns's manuscripts after his decease.]

STAY, My Willie-yet believe me,

Stay, my Willie yet believe me;
'Tweel, thou know'st na every pang
Wad wring my bosom shouldst thou leave me.

Tell me that thou yet art true,

And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven;

And when this heart proves false to thee,
Yon sun shall cease its course in heaven.

But to think I was betray'd,

That falsehood e'er our loves should sunder! To take the floweret to my breast,

And find the guilefu' serpent under!

Could I hope thou'dst ne'er deceive me,
Celestial pleasures, might I choose 'em,
I'd slight, nor seek in other spheres

That heaven I'd find within thy bosom.

THE LAIRD O' LAMINGTON.

HOGG.

CAN I bear to part wi' thee,
Never mair thy face to see,-

Can I bear to part wi' thee,

Drucken Laird o' Lamington?

*These three stanzas, Burns tells us, he composed in the course of two turns through his room, with the assistance of two or three pinches of Irish blackguard.

Canty war ye ower your kale,
Toddy jugs, and jaups o' yill;
Heart aye kind, and leal, and hale,—
The honest Laird o' Lamington!

He that swears is but so so;
He that cheats to hell must go ;
He that falls in bagnio,

Falls in the devil's frying-pan.

Wha was't ne'er put aith to word,
Never fleech'd to duke or lord,
Never sat at sinfu' board?

The honest Laird o' Lamington.

He that cheats can ne'er be just;
He that prays is ne'er to trust;
He that drinks to drauk his dust,
Wha can say that wrang is done?

Wha was't ne'er to fraud inclined,
Never pray'd sin' he could mind?
Ane whase drouth there's few can find-
The honest Laird o' Lamington!

I like a man to tak' his glass,
Toast his friend and bonnie lass;
He that winna is an ass-

Deil send him ane to gallop on!

I like a man that's frank and kind, Meets me when I hae a mind, and drinks me blind, sang Like the honest Laird o' Lamington.

Sings his