And Major Bowle, that worthy soul,
Was broupht down to the ground, man;
His horse being shot, it was his lot
For to get mony a wound, man.
Lieutenant Smith, of Irish birth,
Frae whom he called for aid, man,
Being full of dread, lap ower his head,
And wadna be gainsaid, man.
He made sic haste, sae spurr'd his beast,
'Twas little there he saw, man;
To Berwick rade, and safely said,
The Scots were rebels a', man.
But let that end, for weel 'tis kend
His use and wont to lie, man;
The Teague is naught, he never fought,
When he had room to flee, man.
And Caddell drest, amang the rest,
With gun and good claymore, man,
On gelding grey, he rode that way,
With pistols set before, man:
The cause was good, he'd spend his bluid,
Before that he would yield, man;
But the night before, he left the cor',
And never took the field, man.
But gallant Rodger, like a soger,
Stood and bravely fought, man;
I'm wae to tell, at last he fell,
But mae down wi' him brought, man:
At point of death, wi' his last breath,
(Some standing round in ring, man,)
On's back lying flat, he waved his hat,
And cry'd, God save the king, man.
Some Highland rogues, like hungry dogs,
Neglecting to pursue, man,
About they faced, and in great haste
Upon the booty flew, man;
And they, as gain for all their pain,
Are deck'd wi' spoils of war, man;
Fu' bauld can tell how her nainsell
Was ne'er sae pra pefore, man.
At the thorn tree, which you may see
Bewest the Meadow-mill, man,
There mony slain lay on the plain,
The clans pursuing still, man.
Sic unco hacks, and deadly whacks,
I never saw the like, man;
Lost hands and heads cost them their deads,
That fell near Preston-dyke, man.
That afternoon, when a' was done,
I gaed to see the fray, man;
But had I wist what after past,
I'd better staid away, man:
In Seaton Sands, wi' nimble hands,
They pick'd my pockets bare, man;
But I wish ne'er to drie sic fear,
For a' the sum and mair, man.
Doun the burn, Davie.
[This was contributed by Robert Crawfurd, author of "Tweedside," &c. to the first volume of the Tea-Table Miscellany. It originally consisted of four stanzas, but the last two, being rather highly coloured, were reduced to one, by Burns, for Thomson's collection. Burns says, "I have been informed, that the tune of Doun the burn, Davie, was the composition of David Maigh, keeper of the blood slouth hounds, belonging to the laird of Riddell in Tweeddale." When David Maigh lived is not said; but the tune appears, along with the words, in the Orpheus Caledonius, 1725.]
When trees did bud, and fields were green,
And broom bloom'd fair to see;
When Mary was complete fifteen,
And love laugh'd in her e'e;
Blythe Davie's blinks her heart did move
To speak her mind thus free;
Gang down the burn, Davie, love,
And I will follow thee.
Now Davie did each lad surpass
That dwelt on this burnside;
And Mary was the bonniest lass,
Just meet to be a bride:
Her cheeks were rosie, red and white;
Her een were bonnie blue;
Her looks were like the morning bright,
Her lips like dropping dew.
As down the burn they took their way,
And through the flow'ry dale;
His cheek to hers he aft did lay,
And love was aye the tale.
With, Mary, when shall we return,
Sic pleasure to renew?
Quoth Mary, Love, I like the burn,
And aye will follow you.
