« ZurückWeiter »
But since the proud Consul's grown vanity,
We'll meet him by land or by sea.
Wherever our king has a foe,
Guns an pistols an' a',
Wi' guns an' pistols an' a'.
To tell it I dinna think shame; Poor lad! he came to us but barely,
An' reckon'd our mountain his hame : 'Tis true that our reason forbade us,
But tenderness carried the day ;
Sword an' buckler an' a',
An' 0 I would eagerly press him
The keys o' the East to retain ; For should he gie up the possession.
We'll soon hae to force them again : Than yield up an inch wi' dishonour,
Though it war my finishin' blow,
He aye may depend on Macdonald,
Knees an' elbows an'a',
If Bonapart land at Fort-William,
Auld Europe nae longer shall grane : I laugh, when I think how we'll gall him
Wi' bullet, wi' steel, an' wi' stane ; Wi' rocks o' the Nevis an' Gairy
We'll rattle him aft frae the shore;
Stanes an' bullets an'a';
Wi' stanes an' wi' bullets an' a'.
An' Campbell is steel to the bane; An' Grant, an' Mackenzie, an' Murray,
An' Cameron will hurkle to nane; The Stuart is sturdy an' wannle,
An' sae is Macleod an' Mackay ;
Brogs an' brochen an'a',
An' up wi' the bonny blue bonnet,
BY A BUSH.
Tune-Maid that tends the Goats.
By a bush on yonder brae,
Where the airy Benger rises, Sandy tun’d his artless lay; Thus he sung the lee-lang day :Thou shalt ever be my theme,
Yarrow, winding down the hollow,
On these banks thy waters lave,
Oft on thee the silent wain
Saw the Douglas' banners streaming
Swains have seen the fairies riding:
Many a wild and bloody scene
Now, the days of discord gane,
Henry's kindness keeps us cheery ; While his heart shall warm remain, Dule will beg a hauld in vain. Bloodless now, in many hues
Flow'rets bloom, our hills adorning, There my Jenny milks her ewes, Fresh an'.ruddy as the morning :
Mary Scot could could ne'er outvie
Wind, my Yarrow, down the howe,
Forming bows o' dazzling silver ;
Into life wha first did drap me:
Passing swains shall say, and weep,
AIR-Lochaber no more,
May morning had shed her red streamers on high,
shore. Far heav'd the young sun, like a lamp, on the wave And loud scream'd the gull o'er his foam-beaten
cave, When an old lyart swain on a headland stood high, With the staff in his hand, and the tear in his eye. His old tartan plaid, and his bonnet so blue, Declar'd from what country his lineage he drew; His visage so wan, and his accents so low, Announc'd the companion of sorrow and woe. 'Ah, welcome, thou sun, to thy canopy grand, And to me! for thou com’st from my dear native
land! Again dost thou leave that sweet isle of the sea, To beam on these winter-bound vallies and me!
“How sweet in my own native valley to roam! Each face was a friend's, and each house was a
home, To drag our live thousands from river or bay ; Or chase the dun dear o'er the mountains so gray.