O there's nocht now frae ruin my countrie can save,
But the keys o' kind heaven, to open the grave,
That a' the noble martyrs, who died for loyaltie,
May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.
Hame, hame, hame! O hame fain wad I be!
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
The great now are gane, wha attempted to save;
The green grass is growing abune their graves;
Yet the sun through the mirk seems to promise to me
I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie.
Hame, hame, hame! hame fain wad I be!
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
John Highlandman.
[This forms the "Raucle Carline's" song in Burn's Jolly Beggars. It is given in the fifth volume of George Thomson's collection, to the tune of "The White Cockade." Others adapt it to the tune of "O an ye were dead, guidman."]
A Highland lad my love was born,
The Lawland laws he held in scorn;
But he still was faithful to his clan,
My gallant, braw John Highlandman!
Sing hey, my braw John Highlandman!
Sing ho, my braw John Highlandman!
There's not a lad in a' the land,
Was match for my John Highlandman!
With his philabeg and tartan plaid,
And gude claymore down by his side,
The ladies' hearts he did trepan,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.
We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey,
And lived like lords and ladies gay;
For a Lawland face he feared none,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.
They banish'd him beyond the sea;
But, ere the bud was on the tree,
Adown my checks the pearls ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman.
But, och! they catched him at the last,
And bound him in a dungeon fast;
My curse upon them every one,
They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman!
And now, a widow, I must mourn
Departed joys that ne'er return,
No comfort but a hearty can,
When I think on John Highlandman.
The White Cockade.
[The following are the old Jacobite verses to the popular tune of "The White Cockade."]
My love was born in Aberdeen,
The bonniest kid that e'er was seen;
But now he makes our hearts fu' sad—
He's ta'en the field wi' his white cockade.
O, he's a ranting, roving blade!
O, he's a brisk and a bonny lad!
Betide what may, my heart is glad
To see my lad wi' his white cockade.
O, leeze me on the philabeg,
The hairy hough, and garter'd leg!
But aye the thing that glads my e'e,
Is the white cockade aboon the bree.
I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,
My rippling kame, and spinning wheel,
To buy my lad a tartan plaid,
A braidsword and a white cockade.
I'll sell my rokely and my tow,
My gude gray mare and hawket cow,
That ev'ry loyal Buchan lad
May tak' the field wi' his white cockade.
Lament of Flora M'Donald.
[Words by James Hogg. Music arranged by Neil Gow, Jun.]
Far over the hills of the heather so green,
And down by the Corrie that sings to the sea,
The bonny young Flora sat weeping her lane,
The dew on her plaid and the tear in her e'e.
She look'd at a boat with the breezes that swung,
Away on the wave like a bird on the main;
And aye as it lessen'd she sigh'd and she sung,
"Farewell to the lad I shall ne'er see again;
Farewell to my hero, the gallant and young,
Farewell to the lad I shall ne'er see again.
