Oh, he's been lang, &c.

Oh, come and quaff along wi’ me,
And drink a bumper three times three
To him that's come to set us free.

Huzza! rejoice for Charlie.

Oh, he's been lang, &c.

We daurna brew a peck o' maut,
But Geordie says it is a faut ;
And to our kail cannot get saut
For want o' royal Charlie.

Oh, he's been lang, &c.

Now our good king abroad is gone,

A German whelp now fills the throne,
Whelps that are denied by none,

They're brutes compared to Charlie.

Oh, he's been lang, &c.

Now our good king is turn'd awa',

A German whelp now rules us a';

And though we're forced against our law,
The right belongs to Charlie.

Oh, he's been lang, &c.

If we had but our Charlie back,
We wadna fear the German's crack,
Wi' a' his thieving hungry pack;

The right belongs to Charlie.

Oh, he's been lang, &c.

O Charlie, come and lead our way,
No German whelp shall bear the sway;
Though ilka dog maun hae his day,

The right belongs to Charlie.

Oh, he's been lang, &c.

FLORA AND CHARLIE.

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

OWER yon muir and yon lofty mountains,
Where the trees are clad with snow;
And down by yon murmuring crystal fountain,
Where the silver streams do flow;

There fair Flora sat complaining,

For the absence of our king, Crying, Charlie, lovely Charlie, When shall we two meet again?

Fair Flora's love it was surprising,
Like to diadems in array;
And her dress of the tartan plaidie
Was like a rainbow in the sky.
And each minute she tuned her spinnet,
And royal James was the tune,

Crying, Charlie, royal Charlie,

When shalt thou enjoy thy own?

When all these storms are quite blown o'er,
Then the skies will rent and tear;

Then Charlie he'll return to Britain,
To enjoy the grand affair.

The frisking lambs will skip over,

And larks and linnets shall sweetly sing,

Singing, Charlie, royal Charlie,

You're welcome home to be our king.

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT.

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

THOUGH Geordie reigns in James's stead,

I'm grieved, yet scorn to shew that;
I'll ne'er look down, nor hang my head,
On rebel Whigs for a' that:
But still I'll trust in Providence,

And still I'll laugh at a' that;

And sing, He's ower the hills this night
That I love weel for a' that.

He's far ayont Killebrae this night

That I love weel for a' that;

He wears a pistol on his side,

Which makes me blythe for a' that.
The Highland coat, the philabeg,
The tartan trews, and a' that,
He wears that's o'er the hills this night,
And he'll be here for a' that.

He wears a broadsword on his side,
He kens weel how to draw that;
The target and the Highland plaid,
And shoulder-belt, and a' that;
A bonnet bound wi' ribbons blue,
A white cockade, and a' that,
He wears that's o'er the hills this night,
And will be here for a' that.

The Whigs think a' that Willie's mine,
But yet they mauna fa' that;

They think our hearts will be cast down,

But we'll be blythe for a' that:

For a' that and a' that,

And thrice as meikle's a' that;

He's bonny that's o'er the hills this night,
And will be here for a' that.

But, oh, what will the Whigs say syne,
When they're mista'en and a' that;
When Geordie maun fling by the crown,
The hat and wig, and a' that?

The flames will get baith hat and wig,
As ofttimes they've got a' that;
Our Highland lad will wear the crown,
And aye be blythe for a' that.

And then our brave militia lads
Will be rewarded duly,

When they fling by their black cockades,
That hellish colour truly.

As night is banish'd by the day,

The white will drive awa' that; The sun will then his beams display, And we'll be blithe for a' that.

BONNIE LADDIE, HIGHLAND LADDIE.

ANONYMOUS.

WHERE hae ye been a' the day,

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie?

Saw ye him that's far away,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie?
On his head a bonnet blue,

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie;
Tartan plaid and Highland trews,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie.

When he drew his gude braidsword,
Then he gave his royal word,

That frae the field he ne'er wad flee,
But wi' his friends wad live and dee.

Weary fa' the Lawland loon

Wha took frac him the British croun;
But blessings on the kilted clans
That fought for him at Prestonpans.

Geordie sits in Charlie's chair,
Deil tak him gin he bide there;
Charlie yet shall mount the throne,
Weel ye ken it is his own.

Ken ye the news I hae to tell?
Cumberland's awa' to hell.

When he cam to the Stygian shore,
The deil himsel' wi' fright did roar.

Charon grim cam' out to him,
Ye're welcome here, ye deevil's limb;
He tow'd him o'er wi' curse and ban,
Whiles he sank and whiles he swam.

On him they pat a philabeg,
An' in his lug they ramm'd a peg;
How he did skip and he did roar!
The deils ne'er saw sic fun before.

They took him neist to Satan's ha',
There to lilt wi' his grandpapa;
Says Cumberland, I'll no gang ben,
For fear I meet wi' Charlie's men.

Oh, nought o' that ye hae to fear,
For fient a ane o' them comes here.
The deil sat girnin in the neuk,
Ryving sticks to roast the Duke.

They clapp'd him in an arm-chair,
And fast in chains they bound him there;
And aye they kept it het below,
Wi' peats an' divots frae Glencoe.

They put him then upon a speet,
And roasted him baith head and feet;
Then ate him up baith stoop and roop,

An' that's the gate they served the Duke.

This famous Jacobite song, the best known perhaps of any of the collection, was the last revenge of the Highlanders upon their conqueror, the Duke of Cumberland, -a name that is still as much hated in the Highlands as that of Cromwell is in Ireland. The words "Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie," are usually repeated in singing

at the conclusion of each line.