I saw the battle, sair and teuch,
And reekin' red ran mony a sheuch;
My heart, for fear, ga'e sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds,
O' clans frae wuds, in tartan duds,
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.
The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades,
To meet them were na slaw, man;
They rush'd, and push'd, and bluid out-gush'd,
And mony a bouk did fa', man:
The great Argyle led on his files,
I wat they glanced twenty miles;
They hough 'd the clans like nine-pin kyles;
They hack'd and hash'd, while broadswords clash'd,
And through they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd,
Till fey men died awa', man.
But had you seen the philabegs,
And skyrin' tartan trews, man,
When in the teeth they daur'd our Whigs
And covenant true-blues, man:
In lines extended lang and large,
When bayonets opposed the targe,
And thousands hasten'd to the charge:
Wi' Highland wrath, they frae the sheath
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath,
They fled like frighted doos, man.
O how deil, Tam, can that be true?
The chase gaed frae the north, man;
I saw mysell, they did pursue
The horsemen back to Forth, man;
And at Dunblane, in my ain sight,
They took the brig wi' a' their might,
And straight to Stirling wing'd their flight;
But, cursed lot! the gates were shut,
And mony a huntit puir red-coat
For fear amaist did swarf, man.
My sister Kate cam' up the gate,
Wi' crowdie unto me, man
She swore she saw some rebels run
Frae Perth unto Dundee, man:
Their left-hand general had nae skill,
The Angus lads had nae guid-will
That day their neebours' bluid to spill;
For fear, by foes, that they should lose
Their cogs o' brose, they scared at blows.
And homeward fast did flee, man.
They've lost some gallant gentlemen
Amang the Highland clans, man;
I fear my Lord Panmure is slain.
Or in his enemies' hands, man.
Now wad ye sing this double flight,
Some fell for wrang, and some for right;
And mony bade the world gude night;
Say pell and mell, wi' muskets' knell,
How Tories fell, and Whigs to hell
Flew aff in frighted bands, man.
The Drygate Brig.
[Alexander Rodger.—Air, "The Cameronian Rant."—The Drygate Brig is a small bridge in the north-east and most ancient district of the city of Glasgow, which over-arches the far-famed Molendinar burn.]
Last Monday night, at sax o'clock,
To Mirran Gibb's I went, man,
To snuff, an' crack, an' toom the cap,
It was my hale intent, man:
So down I sat an' pried the yill,
Syne luggit out my sneeshin mill,
An' took a pinch wi' right good will,
O' beggar's brown, (the best in town,)
Then sent it roun' about the room,
To gi'e ilk ane a scent, man.
The sneeshin' mill, the cap gaed round,
The joke, the crack an' a', man,
'Bout markets, trade and daily news,
To wear the time awa', man;
Ye never saw a blither set,
O' queer auld-feshion'd bodies met,
For fient a grain o' pride nor pet,
Nor eating care gat footing there,
But friendship rare, aye found sincere,
An' hearts without a flaw, man.
To cringing courtiers, kings may blaw,
How rich they are an' great, man,
But kings could match na us at a',
Wi' a' their regal state, man;
For Mirran's swats, sae brisk and fell,
An' Turner's snuff, sae sharp an' snell,
Made ilk ane quite forget himsel',
Made young the auld, inflamed the cauld,
And fired the saul wi' projects bauld,
That daur'd the power o' fate, man.
But what are a' sic mighty schemes,
When ance the spell is broke, man?
A set o' maut-inspired whims,
