CARLE, AN THE KING COME.
TUNE-Carle an the King come.
CARLE, an the king come,
Carle, an the king come,
Thou shalt dance and I will sing,
Carle, an the king come.
An somebody were come again,
Then somebody maun cross the main ;
And every man shall hae his ain,
Carle, an the king come.
I trow we swappit for the worse;
We ga'e the boot and better horse;
And that we'll tell them at the corse,
Carle, an the king come.
When yellow corn grows on the rigs,
And gibbets stand to hang the Whigs,
O, then we'll a' dance Scottish jigs,
Carle, an the king come.
Nae mair wi' pinch and drouth we'll dine,
As we hae done-a dog's propine-
But quaff our draughts o' rosy wine,
Carle, an the king come.
Cogie, an the king come,
Cogie, an the king come,
I'se be fou and thou'se be toom,
Cogie, an the king come.*
This is an old favourite cavalier song; the chorus, at least, is as old as the time of the Commonwealth, when the return of King Charles II. was a matter of daily prayer to the Loyalists.
CULLODEN; OR, LOCHIEL'S FAREWELL.
CULLODEN! on thy swarthy brow
Spring no wild flowers nor verdure fair;
Thou feel'st not summer's genial glow,
More than the freezing wintry air;
For once thou drank'st the hero's blood,
And war's unhallow'd footsteps bore.
The deeds unholy Nature view'd—
Then fled, and cursed thee evermore.
From Beauly's wild and woodland glens
How proudly Lovat's banners soar!
How fierce the plaided Highland clans
Rush onward with the broad claymore!
Those hearts that high with honour heaved,
The volleying thunder there laid low,
Or scatter'd like the forest leaves,
When wintry winds begin to blow !
Where now thy honours, brave Lochiel?
The braided plume's torn from thy brow.
What must thy haughty spirit feel,
When skulking like the mountain roe?
While wild-birds chant from Lochy's bowers,
On April eve, their loves and joys,
The Lord of Lochy's loftiest towers
To foreign lands an exile flies.
To his blue hills, that rose in view,
As o'er the deep his galley bore,
He often look'd, and cried, Adieu,
I'll never see Lochaber more!
Though now thy wounds I cannot heal,
My dear, my injured native land!
In other climes thy foes shall feel
The weight of Cameron's deadly brand.
Land of proud hearts and mountains grey!
Where Fingal fought and Ossian sung,
Mourn dark Culloden's fateful day,
That from thy chiefs the laurel wrung!
Where once they ruled, and roam'd at will,
Free as their own dark mountain game;
Their sons are slaves, yet keenly feel
A longing for their fathers' fame.
Shades of the mighty and the brave,
Who, faithful to your Stuart, fell;
No trophies mark your common grave,
No dirges to your memory swell!
But gen'rous hearts will weep your fate,
When far has roll'd the tide of time;
And bards unborn shall renovate
Your fading fame in loftiest rhyme!
OWER THE MUIR AMANG THE
HEATHER.+
TUNE-Ower the Muir amang the Heather.
COMIN' through the craigs o' Kyle,
Amang the bonnie blumin' heather,
There I met a bonnie lassie,
Keepin' a' her flocks thegither.
Ower the muir amang the heather,
Ower the muir amang the heather,
From Mr Hogg's Jacobite Relics, 1821.
"This song," says Burns, "was the composition of Jean Glover, a girl who was not only a, but also a thief; and in one or other character had visited most of the correction-houses in the west. She was born, I believe, in Kilmarnock. I took the song down from her singing, as she was strolling through the country with a slight-of-hand blackguard."
There I met a bonnie lassie,
Keepin' a' her flocks thegither.
Says I, My dear, where is thy hame?
In muir or dale, pray tell me whether?
Says she, I tent the fleecy flocks
That feed amang the blumin' heather.
We laid us down upon a bank,
Sae warm and sunnie was the weather; She left her flocks at large to rove
Amang the bonnie blumin' heather.
She charm'd my heart, and aye sinsyne
I could nae think on ony other :
By sea and sky! she shall be mine,
The bonnie lass amang the heather.
COPE sent a letter frae Dunbar :-
Charlie, meet me an ye daur,
And I'll learn you the art o' war,
If you'll meet me in the morning.
Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye wauking yet?
Or are your drums a-beating yet?
If ye were wauking, I wad wait
To gang to the coals i' the morning.
When Charlie look'd the letter upon,
He drew his sword the scabbard from:
Come follow me, my merry merry men,
And we'll meet Cope in the morning.
Now, Johnnie, be as good's your word:
Come let us try both fire and sword;
And dinna rin away like a frighted bird,
That's chased frae its nest in the morning.
When Johnnie Cope he heard of this,
He thought it waḍna be amiss,
To hae a horse in readiness
To flee awa in the morning.
Fy now, Johnnie, get up and rin,
The Highland bagpipes mak a din;
It is best to sleep in a hale skin,
For 'twill be a bluidy morning.
When Johnnie Cope to Berwick came,
They speer'd at him, Where's a' your men?
The deil confound me gin I ken,
For I left them a' i' the morning.
Now, Johnnie, troth ye are na blate
To come wi' the news o' your ain defeat,
And leave your men in sic a strait
Sae early in the morning.
Oh! faith, quo' Johnnie, I got a fleg
Wi' their claymores and philabegs;
If I face them again, deil break my legs-
So I wish you a gude morning.
COME all ye jolly shepherds that whistle through the
I'll tell ye of a secret that courtiers dinna ken.
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