But the Provost, douce man, said, "Just e'en let him be, The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee ! As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow, But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee, Thinking, "Luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonnie Dundee.” With sour-featured Whigs the Grassmarket crammed, As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged; was There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e'e, As they watched for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee. These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears, And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers; But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway was free, At the toss of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock, "Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three, For the love of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee." The Gordon demands of him which way he goes; "There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond Forth, If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in the North; There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three Will cry Hoigh! for the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. "There's brass on the target of barkened bull-hide; There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside; The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free At a toss of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. "Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks, And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee, He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown, Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, Sir Walter Scott. Farewell, Manchester [These words have been set to an old tune said to have been played by the troops of Charles Stuart on quitting Manchester in December, 1745.] AREWELL, Manchester, noble town, farewell! Farewell, Manchester, sadly I depart, J. Oxenford. D Culloden (1746) ARK, dark was the day when we looked on And chill was the mist drop that clung to the tree, The oats of the harvest hung heavy and sodden, No light on the land and no wind on the sea. There was wind, there was rain, there was fire on their faces, When the clans broke the bayonets and died on the guns, And 't is Honour that watches the desolate places Where they sleep through the change of the snows and the suns. Unfed and unmarshalled, outworn and outnumbered, Ah, woe worth you, Sleat, and the faith that you vowed, Ah, woe worth you, Lovat, Traquair, and Mackay; And woe on the false fairy flag of Macleod, And the fat squires who drank, but who dared not to die! Where the graves of Clan Chattan are clustered together, Where Macgillavray died by the Well of the Dead, We stooped to the moorland and plucked the pale heather That blooms where the hope of the Stuart was sped. And a whisper awoke on the wilderness, sighing, Wae's Me for Prince Charlie WEE bird cam' to our ha' door, He warbled sweet and clearly, An' aye the o'er-come o' his sang Was "Wae's me for Prince Charlie!" Oh! when I heard the bonnie, bonnie bird, The tears cam' droppin' rarely, I took my bonnet aff my head, For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie. Quoth I, "My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird, Are these some words ye 've learnt by rote, But sic a day o' wind an' rain- "On hills that are by right his ain, Yestreen I met him in a glen, My heart near burstit fairly, By those white cliffs I never more must see, T A Jacobite's Exile Macaulay. HE weary day rins down and dies, The weary night wears through: I would the day were night for me, I would the night were day: For then would I stand in my ain fair land, O lordly flow the Loire and Seine, And the waves of Till that speak sae still O weel were they that fell fighting They keep their hame ayont the faem O sound they sleep, and saft, and deep, And ill we sleep, sae sair we weep, |