To arms, to arms! brave boys, to arms!
A true British cause for your courage doth ca';
Court, country, and city against a banditti,
Lillibulero, bullen a la.
The pope sends us over a bonnie young lad,
Lillibulero, &c.
Who, to court British favour, wears a Highland plaid,
Lillibulero, &c.
A protestant church from Rome doth advance,
Lillibulero, &c.
And, what is more rare, it brings freedom from France,
Lillibulero, &c.
If this shall surprise you, there's news stranger yet,
Lillibulero, &c.
He brings Highland money to pay British debt,
Lillibulero, &c.
You must take it in coin which the country affords,
Lillibulero, &c.
Instead of broad pieces, he pays with broad swords,
Lillibulero, &c.
And sure this is paying you in the best ere,
Lillibulero, &c.
For who once is thus paid will never want more,
Lillibulero, &c.
To arms, to arms! brave boys, to arms!
A true British cause for your courage doth ca';
Court, country, and city against a banditti,
Lillibulero, bullen a la.
Why do ye tarry.
[Alexander Hume.—Here first printed.]
Why do ye tarry,
Bonnie ship Mary?
Why do ye linger so far far frae me?
Winds, will ye waken?
Ne'er your breath slacken,
But O, breathe kindly, my love's on the sea.
If o' her nature
You had a feature,
Ne'er could you harm the frail barque on the sea;
Not even find weather
To ruffle a feather
Of the poor sea bird, so gentle is she!
But if you'll not send
My dear love to land,
O, bear this kiss hence in swiftness with thee;
Whisper not to her
Who is the wooer,
She'll know by the kiss, that the kiss comes from me.
Waly, Waly.
[This deeply pathetic song is of undoubted antiquity, but nothing satisfactory can be told regarding its history. According to some accounts, the subject of it is said to have been Lady Barbara Erskine, wife of the second marquis of Douglas, who, in 1670, was abandoned by her husband on account of some scandal, but this is extremely apocryphal, as the song is clearly the lamentation of a forsaken girl, not a wife.]
O waly, waly up the bank,
And waly, waly down the brae,
And waly, waly yon burn-side,
Where I and my love wont to gae!
I lean'd my back unto an aik,
I thoucht it was a trusty tree;
But first it bow'd, and syne it brak:
Sae my true love did lichtlie me.
O waly, waly, but love be bonnie
A little time while it is new;
But when it's auld it waxes cauld,
And fades away like the morning dew.
O wherefore should I busk my heid,
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true love has me forsook,
And says he'll never love me mair.
Now Arthur's Scat shall be my bed,
The sheets shall ne'er be press'd by me,
St. Anton's Well shall be my drink,
Since my true love has forsaken me.
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
O, gentle death, when wilt thou come?
For of my life I am wearie.
