The Chelsea Pensioners.
[The following song, otherwise called "The Days o' Langsyne," was written by Miss Blamire, of whom we have spoken in a previous note. It has been sometimes erroneously ascribed to Dr. James Moor, professor of Greek in the University of Glasgow. The "duke" alluded to in the second stanza was Willam duke of Cumberland, and the last line of that verse originally ran,
"Could William but lead, and I fight, as langsyne,"
but the authoress afterwards struck out the name, justly judging that it could never be popular in Scotland, so long as the odious butcheries that succeeded Culloden were remembered.]
When war had broke in on the peace o' auld men,
And frae Chelsea to arms they were summon'd again,
Twa vet'rans grown gray, wi' their muskets sair soil'd,
Wi' a sigh were relating how hard they had toil'd;
The drum it was beating, to fight they incline,
But aye they look back to the days o' langsyne.
Eh! Davie, man, weel thou remembers the time,
When twa brisk young callans, an' just in our prime,
The duke bade us conquer, an' show'd us the way,
An' mony a braw chiel we laid low on that day:
Still again would I venture this auld trunk o' mine,
Could our generals but lead, or we fight like langsyne.
But garrison duty is a' we can do,
Though our arms are worn weak, yet our hearts are still true
We care na for dangers by land or by sea,
For time has turn'd coward, an' no you and me;
And though at the change we should sadly repine,
Youth winna return, nor the strength o' langsyne.
When after our conquests, it joys me to mind,
How thy Janet caress'd thee, and my Meg was kind;
They follow'd our fortunes, though ever so hard,
Nor cared we for plunder, when sic our reward:
Even now, they're resolved baith their hames to resign,
And will follow us yet, for the sake o' langsyne.
Dear Highland Laddie.
[Robert Tannahill.—Gaelic air, "Mor nian a Ghibarlan."]
Blythe was the time when he fee'd wi' my father, O,
Happy were the days when we herded thegither, O,
Sweet were the hours when he row'd me in his plaidie, O,
And vow'd to be mine, my dear Highland laddie, O.
But, ah! waes me! wi' their sodgering sae gaudy, O,
The laird's wyl'd awa' my braw Highland laddie, O,
Misty are the glens and the dark hills sae cloudy, O,
That aye seem'd sae blythe wi' my dear Highland laddie, O.
