The English Rose was ne'er sae red, Loud was the battle's stormy swell, The Paris maids may ban them a', Wi' quakin' heart and tremblin' knees, While the "meteor-flag" floats to the breeze, Peace to the spirits o' the brave, Ye Caledonian war-pipes, play; An' the gallant Scot show'd there that day Shout to the heroes-swell ilk voice To them wha made poor Spain rejoice; BACK AGAIN.. ANONYMOUS. About the year 1801. WHEN Abercromby, gallant Scot, But now I'm safe come back again. For I am safe come back again. It's true they've ta'en frae me a leg; But wha for that would mak' a maen? Cheer up your heart, my bounie Meg, I've brought a leal heart back again. And though the wound it carried smart, And twitch'd me sair wi' rackin' pain, Wi' honour's scars I wadna part, Nor yet my leg take back again. Cheer up your heart since I am here, Wi' smiles your cheek gae deck again; Cheer up, my lass, an' dinna fear, Your Donald's safe come back again. Though mony a rattlin' blast has blawn, There's plenty in the stack again; My wee lock siller's a' your ain Now sin' I'm safe come back again. Now may the wars for ever cease, Your heart nae mair to rack again; And may we live in love and peace, Sin' Donald's safe come back again. But should my country call me forth, Her freedom to protect again, Claymore in hand I'd leave the North, If I should ne'er come back again. CALEDONIA! thou land of the mountain and rock, Thou land of the torrent, the pine, and the oak, Yet kind are the hearts and undaunted the clans A foe from abroad, or a tyrant at home, Of genius unshackled and free, The Muses have left all the vales of the south, My loved Caledonia, for thee! Sweet land of the bay and the wild-winding deeps, While far in the depth of the blue water sleeps Thou land of the valley, the moor, and the hill, Of the storm and the proud rolling wave- THE THISTLE OF SCOTLAND. Air-"The Black Joke." LET them boast of the country gave Patrick his fame, Of the land of the ocean and Anglian name, With the red-blushing roses and shamrock so green : Far dearer to me are the hills of the North, The land of blue mountains, the birth-place of worth; Those mountains where Freedom has fix'd her abode, Those wide-spreading glens where no slave ever trode, Where blooms the red heather and thistle so green. Though rich be the soil where blossoms the rose, yore, Far-famed are our sires in the battles of Oh dear to our souls as the blessings of heaven, For that land and that freedom our fathers have bled, This song was inserted in Hogg's "Jacobite Relics." The Shepherd states, in introducing it: "This is a modern song, and the only one that is in the volume, to my knowledge. It had no right to be here, for it is a national, not a Jacobite song; but I insert it out of a whim, to vary the theme a little. It is an excellent song, though professedly an imitation, and when tolerably sung, never misses of having a good effect among a company of Scots people. It has been published as mine in several collections; I wish it were; but I am told that it was written by Mr. Sutherland, land surveyor, a gentleman of whom I know nothing, save that he is the author of some other popular songs." As nothing else has been discovered of Mr. Sutherland, the song is supposed to have been written by Hogg himself. MY AIN COUNTRIE. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. THE sun rises bright in France, And fair sets he; But he has tint the blythe blink he had In my ain countrie. Oh, gladness comes to many, But sorrow comes to me, As I look o'er the wide ocean To my ain countrie. |