Auld Janet, his wife, out a-gazing,
To lock in the door was her care;
She, seeing our signals a-blazing,
Came rinnin' in ryving her hair:
O, Symon, the Frenchies are landit!
Gae look man, and slip on your shoon;
Our signals I see them extendit,
Like red risin' rays frae the moon.
What a plague! the French landit! quo' Symon,
And clash gaed his pipe to the wa':
Faith, then, there's be loadin' and primin',
Quo' he, if they're landit ava.
Our youngest son's in the militia,
Our eldest grandson's volunteer:
O' the French to be fu' o' the flesh o',
I too i' the ranks shall appear.
His waistcoat-pouch fill'd he wi' pouther,
And bang'd down his rusty auld gun;
His bullets he pat in the other,
That he for the purpose had run.
Then humpled he out in a hurry,
While Janet his courage bewails,
And cried out, Dear Symon, be wary!
And teuchly she hung by his tails.
Let be wi' your kindness, cried Symon,
Nor vex me wi' tears and your cares;
For, now to be ruled by a woman,
Nae laurels shall crown my grey hairs.
Then hear me, quo' Janet, I pray thee,
I'll tend thee, love, livin' or deid,
And if thou should fa', I'll dee wi' thee,
Or tie up thy wounds if thou bleed.
Quo' Janet, O, keep frae the riot!
Last nicht, man, I dreamt ye was deid;
This aught days I tentit a pyot
Sit chatt'rin' upon the house-heid.
As yesterday, workin' my stockin',
And you wi' the sheep on the hill,
A muckle black corbie sat croaking;
I kend it forebodit some ill.
Hout, cheer up, dear Janet, be hearty,
For, ere the neist sun may gae down,
Wha kens but I'll shoot Bonaparte,
And end my auld days in renown.
Syne off in a hurry he stumpled,
Wi' bullets, and pouther, and gun;
At's curpin auld Janet, too, humpled
Awa' to the neist neebour-toun:
There footmen and yeomen paradin',
To scour off in dirdum were seen;
And wives and young lasses a' sheddin'
The briny saut tears frae their een.
Then aff wi' his bonnet got Symie,
And to the commander he gaes,
Quo' he, Sir, I mean to gae wi' ye,
And help ye to lounder our faes:
I'm auld, yet I'm teuch as the wire,
Sae we'll at the rogues ha'e a dash,
And fegs, if my gun wiuna fire,
I'll turn her but-end and I'll thrash.
Well spoken, my hearty old hero!
The captain did smilin' reply;
But begg'd he wad stay till to-morrow,
Till day-licht should glent in the sky.
What reck, a' the stoure cam' to naething,
Sae Symon, and Janet his dame,
Halescart, frae the wars, without skaithing,
Gaed, bannin' the French, away hame.
Oh ono chri oh.
[From a collection of Jacobite Melodies, published at Edinburgh in 1823. This lamentation is said to relate to an incident connected with the massacre of the Macdonalds of Glenco, in 1691.]
Oh, 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 ch! &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 tye 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 untye this knot again:
