PRINCE CHARLES AND FLORA MACDONALD'S WELCOME TO SKYE.

From "Hogg's Jacobite Relics." Translated from the Gaelic.

THERE are twa bonny maidens and three bonny maidens
Come o'er the minch and come o'er the main,

O'er the wind and the faem with the corrie for their hame,
Let us welcome them bravely to Skye again.

Come along, come along, wi' your boatie and your song,
Ye twa bonny maidens and three bonny maidens;
For the nicht it is dark, and the red-coat is gone,
And you're bravely welcome to Skye again.

There is Flora my honey, sae dear and sae bonny,
And one that is tall and comely withal;

But the one as my king and the other as my queen,
They're welcome, welcome to Skye again.

Come along, come along, with your boatie and your song,
Ye twa bonny maidens and three bonny maidens;

For the lady of Maclain she lieth her lane,

And you're bravely welcome to Skye again.

Her arm it is strong, and her petticoat is long,

My one bonny maiden and twa bonny maidens;

But their bed shall be clain 'mid the storm and the rain;
And they're welcome, welcome to Skye again.

Come along, come along, with your boatie and your song,
You one bonny maiden and twà bonny maidens;
By the sea-moullit's nest I'll watch ye o'er the main,
And you're dearly welcome to Skye again.

There's a wind on the tree and a ship on the sea,

My twa bonny maidens and three bonny maidens;
On the lea of the rock shall your cradle be rock'd;

And you're welcome, welcome to Skye again.
Come along, come along, wi' your boatie and your song,
My twa bonny maidens and three bonny maidens;
More sound shall you sleep when you rock on the deep;
And ye'se aye be welcome to Skye again.

AWA', WHIGS, AWA'!

From "Hogg's Jacobite Relics."

OUR thistles flourish'd fresh and fair,
And bonny bloom'd our roses;
But Whigs came like a frost in June,
And wither'd a' our posies.

Awa', Whigs, awa'!

Awa', Whigs, awa'!

Ye're but a pack o' traitor loons;
Ye'll ne'er do good at a'.

Our sad decay in church and state
Surpasses my descriving;

The Whigs came o'er us for a curse,
And we have done wi' thriving.

A foreign Whiggish loon bought seeds,
In Scottish yaird to cover;
But we'll pu' a' his dibbled leeks,
And pack him to Hanover.

Our ancient crown's fa'n i' the dust,
Deil blind them wi' the stour o't!

And write their names in his black book
Wha ga'e the Whigs the power o't.

Grim Vengeance lang has ta'en a nap,
But we may see him wauken;
God help the day when royal heads
Are hunted like a maukin!

The deil he heard the storm o' tongues,
And ramping came amang us;
But he pitied us, sae cursed wi' Whigs,
He turn'd and wadna wrang us.

Sae grim he sat amang the reek,

Thrang bundling brunstane matches; And croon'd 'mang the beuk-taking Whigs,

Scraps of auld Calvin's catches.

Awa', Whigs, awa'!

Awa', Whigs, awa'!

Ye'll rin me out o' brunstane spunks,

And ne'er do good at a'.

Он, was not I a weary wight?

Oh, ono chri, oh! oh, ono chri, oh! Maid, wife, and widow in one night! Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.

When in my soft and yielding arms,

Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.

When most I thought him free from harms,

Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.

Even at the dead time of the night,

Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.

They broke my bower, and slew my knight,

Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.

With ae lock of his jet-black hair,

Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.

I'll tie my heart for ever mair;

Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.

Nae sly-tongued youth or flattering swain,

Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.

Shall e'er untie this knot again :

Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.

Thine still, dear youth, that heart shall be,
Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.

Nor pant for aught save heaven and thee,
Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.

THE AULD STUARTS BACK AGAIN. ANONYMOUS. 1745.

THE auld Stuarts back again!

The auld Stuarts back again!

Let howlet Whigs do what they can,
The Stuarts will be back again.
Wha cares for a' their creeshie duds,
And a' Kilmarnock's sowan suds?
We'll wauk their hides and fyle their fuds,
And bring the Stuarts back again.
There's Ayr and Irvine, wi' the rest,
And a' the cronies o' the west;
Lord, sic a scaw'd and scabbit nest,

And they'll set up their crack again!
But wad they come, or daur they come,
Afore the bagpipe and the drum,
We'll either gar them a' sing dumb,
Or, "Auld Stuarts back again."

Give ear unto this loyal sang,
A' ye that ken the richt frae wrang,
An' a' that look and think it lang,
For auld Stuarts back again:
Were ye wi' me to chase the rae,
Out owre the hills an' far away,
And saw the lords come there that day,
To bring the Stuarts back again.

There might ye see the noble Mar,
Wi' Athole, Huntly, and Traquair,
Seaforth, Kilsyth, and Auldublair,

And mony mae, what reck, again.
Then what are a' their westlin' crews?
We'll gar the tailors tack again:
Can they forstand the tartan trews,
And "Auld Stuarts back again!"

THE DUKE OF CUMBERLAND.

From "The Wanderings of Prince Charles and Flora Macdonald,"
by PETER BUCHAN.

THAT mushrom thing call'd Cumberland
Has lately passd the Forth, sir;
But he's commenced plunderland
Since he gaed to the north, sir;

Sing audlie ilti, audlie ilti, audlie ilti, lara lara;
Sing audlie ilti, audlie ilti, audlie ilti, lara, lara.
He is the first of all the line

Call'd Protestant, I swear, sir,
That ever kiss'd our ladies fine,
Or breathed in Scottish air, sir.

Then all the brood o'erwhelm'd with dool,

I'll pledge my faith and troth, sir,

Instead of tarts and pies at yule,
They'll slab their turnip-broth, sir.

Sing audlie ilti, &c.

OH, HE'S BEEN LANG O' COMING!

From PETER BUCHAN'S "Prince Charles and Flora Macdonald."

THE youth that should hae been our king
Was dress'd in yellow, red, and green;
A braver lad ye wadna seen

Nor our brave royal Charlie.