The cannons didna Donald fleg,
I'd like to hear them crack again;
My fears were for my bonnie Meg,
Lest I should ne'er come back again.
Our leader fell,—so died the brave,
We'll never see his like again;
I was denied a sodger's grave,
For I am safe come back again.
It's true they've ta'en fvae me a leg,
But wha for that would mak' a maen;
Cheer up your heart, my bonnie Meg,
I've brought a leal heart back again.
And though the wound it carried smart,
And twitch'd me sair wi' rackin' pain,
Wi' honour's scars I wadna part,
Nor yet my leg take back again.
Cheer up your heart, since I am here,
Wi' smiles your cheek gae deck again;
Cheer up, my lass, an' dinna fear,
Your Donald's safe come back again.
Though mony a rattlin' blast has blawn,
There's plenty in the stack again,
My wee lock siller's a' your ain
Now sin' I'm safe come back again.
Now may the wars for ever cease,
Your heart nae mair to rack again;
And may we live in love and peace,
Sin' Donald's safe come back again.
But should my country call me forth,
Her freedom to protect again,
Claymore in hand, I'd leave the North,
If I should ne'er come back again.
The Wee Lassie.
[Rev. Edward K. Sloan, Dornock.—Here first printed.]
A bonnie wee lassie I ken, I ken,
A bonnie wee lassie I ken;
The blink o' her e'e is heaven to me,
An' wow! but she's ane amang ten, amang ten,
An' wow! but she's ane amang ten.
A handsome wee lassie I lo'e, I lo'e,
A handsome wee lassie I lo'e;
The pawkie wee quean has doiter'd me clean,
An' mair mischief she'll wark, I tro, I tro,
An' mair mischief she'll wark, I tro.
A winsome wee lassie I'll woo, I'll woo,
A winsome wee lassie I'll woo;
I'll keek in her e'e, an' aiblins may pree
The wee hinny blobs o' her mou', her mou',
The wee hinny blobs o' her mou'.
A mensefu' wee lassie I'll wale, I'll wale,
A mensefu' wee lassie I'll wale;
An' soud the wee dear ha'e gowpens o' gear,
She'll no be the waur for't, I'se bail, I'se bail,
She'll no be the waur for't, I'se bail.
A canty wee lassie I'll wed, I'll wed,
A canty wee lassie I'll wed;
An' when she is mine, I'll busk her fu' fine,
An' a couthie bit life we'll lead, we'll lead,
An' a couthie bit life we'll lead.
The Cardin’ o’t.
[Written by Burns after an old song, a tune called "Salt Fish and Dumplings." "Haslock woo'" is the wool shorn from the throats of sheep, and is the finest of the fleece.]
I coft a stane o' haslock woo',
To make a coat to Johnny o't;
For Johnny is my only jo,
I lo'e him best of ony yet.
The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't,
The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't;
When ilka ell cost me a groat,
The tailor staw the lynin' o't.
For though his locks be lyart grey,
And though his brow be held aboon;
Yet I ha'e seen him on a day
The pride of a' the parishen.
The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't,
The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't;
When ilka ell cost me a groat,
The tailor staw the lynin' o't.
