Her mither wears a plettit mutch;
Her father is an honest dyker,
An' she hersel's a daintie quean,
Ye winna shaw me monie like her.
Wooing at her, &c.
A pleasant lass she's kent to be,
Wi' fouth o' sense an' smeddum in her;
There's no a swankie far or near,
But tries wi' a' his might to win her.
Wooing at her, &c.
But sweet and pleasant as she is,
She winna thole the marriage tether,
But likes to rove and rant about,
Like highland couts amang the heather.
Wooing at her, &c.
It's seven years, and somewhat mair,
Sin' Matthew Dutch made courtship till her,
A merchant bluff, ayont the burn,
Wi' heaps o' breeks an' bags o' siller.
Wooing at her, &c.
The next to him was Baltic John,
Stept up the brae and keeket at her,
Syne turn'd as great a fool's he came,
And in a day or twa forgat her.
Wooing at her, &c.
Now Lawrie French has ta'en the whim
To toss his airs, and frisk about her,
And Malcolm Fleming puffs and swears
He disna value life without her.
Wooing at her, &c.
They've casten out wi' a' their kin,
Thinking that wad gar them get her;
Yet after a' the fash they've ta'en,
They maybe winna be the better.
Wooing at her, &c.
But Donald Scot's the happy lad,
Wha seems to be the coshest wi' her,
He never fails to get a kiss,
As aften as he likes to see her.
Wooing at her, &c.
But Donald, tak' a friend's advice,
Although I ken ye fain wad ha'e her,
E'en just be doing as ye are,
And haud wi' what ye're getting frae her.
Wooing at her, &c.
Ye're weel, and wats nae, as we say,
In getting leave to dwell beside her;
And gin ye had her mair your ain,
Ye'd maybe find it waur to guide her.
Wooing at her, &c.
Ah! Lawrie, ye've debauch'd the lass,
Wi' vile new-fangled tricks ye've play'd her;
Depraved her morals;—like an ass,
Ye've courted her, and syne betray'd her.
Wi' hanging of her, burning of her
Cutting, hacking, slashing at her;
Bonnie Lizy Liberty,
May ban the day ye ettled at her.
Maclaine.
[A ballad of the Forty-five, written, composed, and dedicated to the Clan, by Miss Ross.]
Banners are waving o'er Morven's dark heath,
Claymores are flashing from many a sheath;
Hark! 'tis the gathering. On, onward! they cry;
Far flies the signal to conquer or die.
Then follow thee, follow a boat to the sea,
Thy Prince in Glen Moidart is waiting for thee,
Where war-pipes are sounding and banners are free,
Maclaine and his clansmen the foremost you'll see.
Wildly the war-cry has startled yon stag,
And waken'd the echoes of Gillian's lone crag;
Up hill and down glen each brave mountaineer
Has belted his plaid and has mounted his spear.
Then follow thee, &c.
The signal is heard from mountain to shore,
They rush like the flood o'er dark Corry-vohr,
The war-note is sounding, loud, wildly, and high,
Louder they shout, On, to conquer or die!
Then follow thee, &c.
The heath-bell at morn so proudly ye trod,
Son of the mountain! now covers thy sod;
Wrapt in your plaid, 'mid the bravest ye lie,
The words as ye fell still conquer or die.
Then follow thee, &c.
