Now, wae to thee, thou cruel lord!
A bluidy man I trow thou be;
For mony a heart thou hast made sair,
That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee.
The lovely lass of Inverness.
[Written by Allan Cunningham, and first published in Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song.]
There liv'd a lass in Inverness,
She was the pride of a' the town,
She was blythe as a lark on the flower-tap,
Whan frae the nest it's newly flown.
At kirk she wan the auld folks luve,
At dance she wan the ladses' een;
She was the blythest aye o' the blythe,
At wooster-trystes or Halloween.
As I came in by Inverness,
The simmer-sun was sinking down,
O there I saw the weel-faur'd lass,
And she was greeting through the town.
The gray-hair'd men were a' i' the streets,
And auld dames crying, (sad to see!)
"The flower o' the lads o' Inverness,
Lie bluidie on Culloden-lee!"
She tore her haffet-links of gowd,
And dighted aye her comely e'e;
"My father lies at bluidie Carlisle,
At Preston sleep my brethren three!
I thought my heart could haud nae mair,
Mae tears could never blin' my e'e;
But the fa' o' ane has burst my heart,
A dearer ane there ne'er could be!
"He trysted me o' luve yestreen,
Of love-tokens he gave me three;
But he's faulded i' the arms o' gory wier,
O ne'er again to think o' me!
The forest-flowers shall be my bed,
My food shall be the wild-berrie,
The fa' o' the leaf shall co'er me cauld,
And wauken'd again I winna be.
O weep, O weep, ye Scottish dames,
Weep till ye blin' a mither's ee;
Nae reeking ha' in fifty miles,
But naked corses sad to see.
O spring is blythesome to the year,
Trees sprout, flowers spring, and birds sing hie,
But oh! what spring can raise them up,
Whose bluidie weir has seal'd the e'e?
The hand o' God hung heavie here,
And lightly touch'd foul tyrannie!
It strake the righteous to the ground,
And lifted the destroyer hie.
But there's a day, quo' my God in prayer,
Whan righteousness shall bear the gree,
I'll rake the wicked low i' the dust,
And wauken, in bliss, the gude man's e'e!
Charlie he's my darling.
[Of this popular Jacobite song there are different versions. The following are the words which appear in Johnson's Museum, under the superintendence of Burns. In connection with the last stanza of this song, Sir William Gell relates an affecting anecdote of Sir Walter Scott. Sir William had the honour of acting as cicerone to Sir Walter during his last illness, when on his visit to Naples; and on one occasion, when they were toiling over a rugged pathway in the vicinity of Mount Vesuvius, Sir Walter was observed to be muttering some verses. Sir William listened, wondering what might be passing in his companion's mind, while treading a spot so rich in classical associations. But he soon found that the dying poet's heart was not in Italy, but was reverting, even there, to the scenes of his native land; for the words he caught him repeating were the close of the present song—
"It's up yon heathery mountain,
And down yon scroggy glen,
We daurna gang a-milking,
For Charlie and his men."]
'Twas on a Monday morning,
Richt early in the year,
That Charlie cam' to our toun,
The young Chevalier.
And Charlie he's my darling,
My darling, my darling;
Charlie he's my darling,
The young Chevalier.
