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,
Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow;

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,
And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke;

"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;
"Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose!
Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me,
Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.

"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,
Ere I own a usurper, I'll couch with the fox;

And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee,
You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me!"

He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown,
The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on,
Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lee
Died away the wild war-notes of Bonnie Dundee.

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
Come saddle the horses, and call up the men,
Come open the gates, and let me gae free,
For it's up with the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee!

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!
Here with loyalty every breast shall swell.
Wheresoe'er I roam, here, as in a home,
Ever dear Lancashire, my heart shall dwell.

Farewell, Manchester, sadly I depart,
Tear-drops bodingly from their prison start.
Though I toil anew, shadows to pursue,
Shadows vain, thou 'lt remain within my heart.

J. Oxenford.

D

Culloden

(1746)

ARK, dark was the day when we looked on
Culloden

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,
All hopeless and fearless, as fiercely they fought,
As when Falkirk with heaps of the fallen was cumbered,
As when Gledsmuir was red with the havoc they
wrought.

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,
Like the voice of the heroes who battled in vain,
"Not for Tearlach alone the red claymore was plying,
But to bring back the old life that comes not again".
Andrew Lang.

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,
Is that a sang ye borrow?

Are these some words ye 've learnt by rote,
Or a lilt o' dool an' sorrow?"
"Oh! no, no, no," the wee bird sang,
"I've flown sin' mornin' early;

But sic a day o' wind an' rain-
Oh! wae's me for Prince Charlie!

"On hills that are by right his ain,
He roves a lanely stranger,
On ilka hand he's press'd by want,
On ilka side is danger.

Yestreen I met him in a glen,

My heart near burstit fairly,
For sadly changed indeed was he-
Oh! wae's me for Prince Charlie!"

By those white cliffs I never more must see,
By that dear language which I spake like thee,
Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear
O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here.

T

A Jacobite's Exile

Macaulay.

HE weary day rins down and dies,

The weary night wears through:
And never an hour is fair wi' flower,
And never a flower wi' dew.

I would the day were night for me,

I would the night were day:

For then would I stand in my ain fair land,
As now in dreams I may.

O lordly flow the Loire and Seine,
And loud the dark Durance:
But bonnier shine the braes of Tyne
Than a' the fields of France;

And the waves of Till that speak sae still
Gleam goodlier where they glance.

O weel were they that fell fighting
On dark Drumossie's day:

They keep their hame ayont the faem
And we die far away.

O sound they sleep, and saft, and deep,
But night and day wake we;
And ever between the sea banks green
Sounds loud the sundering sea.

And ill we sleep, sae sair we weep,
But sweet and fast sleep they;