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Part XXXIIIPart XXXIII
Part XXXIII
Ca` The Yowes To The Knowes
Chorus.-Ca` the yowes to the knowes,
Ca` them where the heather grows,
Ca` them where the burnie rowes,
My bonie dearie
As I gaed down the water-side,
There I met my shepherd lad:
He row`d me sweetly in his plaid,
And he ca`d me his dearie.
Ca` the yowes, &c.
Will ye gang down the water-side,
And see the waves sae sweetly glide
Beneath the hazels spreading wide,
The moon it shines fu` clearly.
Ca` the yowes, &c.
Ye sall get gowns and ribbons meet,
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet,
And in my arms ye`se lie and sleep,
An` ye sall be my dearie.
Ca` the yowes, &c.
If ye`ll but stand to what ye`ve said,
I`se gang wi` thee, my shepherd lad,
And ye may row me in your plaid,
And I sall be your dearie.
Ca` the yowes, &c.
While waters wimple to the sea,
While day blinks in the lift sae hie,
Till clay-cauld death sall blin` my e`e,
Ye sall be my dearie.
Ca` the yowes, &c.
I Gaed A Waefu` Gate Yestreen
I gaed a waefu` gate yestreen,
A gate, I fear, I`ll dearly rue;
I gat my death frae twa sweet een,
Twa lovely een o`bonie blue.
`Twas not her golden ringlets bright,
Her lips like roses wat wi` dew,
Her heaving bosom, lily-white-
It was her een sae bonie blue.
She talk`d, she smil`d, my heart she wyl`d;
She charm`d my soul I wist na how;
And aye the stound, the deadly wound,
Cam frae her een so bonie blue.
But "spare to speak, and spare to speed;"
She`ll aiblins listen to my vow:
Should she refuse, I`ll lay my dead
To her twa een sae bonie blue.
Highland Harry Back Again
My Harry was a gallant gay,
Fu` stately strade he on the plain;
But now he`s banish`d far away,
I`ll never see him back again.
Chorus.-O for him back again!
O for him back again!
I wad gie a` Knockhaspie`s land
For Highland Harry back again.
When a` the lave gae to their bed,
I wander dowie up the glen;
I set me down and greet my fill,
And aye I wish him back again.
O for him, &c.
O were some villains hangit high,
And ilka body had their ain!
Then I might see the joyfu` sight,
My Highland Harry back again.
O for him, &c.
The Battle Of Sherramuir
tune-"The Cameronian Rant."
"O cam ye here the fight to shun,
Or herd the sheep wi` me, man?
Or were ye at the Sherra-moor,
Or did the battle see, man?"
I saw the battle, sair and teugh,
And reekin-red ran mony a sheugh;
My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds
O` clans frae woods, in tartan duds,
Wha glaum`d at kingdoms three, man.
La, la, la, la, &c.
The red-coat lads, wi` black cockauds,
To meet them were na slaw, man;
They rush`d and push`d, and blude outgush`d
And mony a bouk did fa`, man:
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.
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