Now State politicians new taxes propose,
Involving our country in numberless woes,
What a blessing it is! there's yet nane upon brose!
O! the kail brose, &c.
But aye since the thistle was joined to the rose,
And Englishmen no more accounted our foes,
We have lost a great part of our stomach for brose.
O! the kail brose, &c.
But each true-hearted Scotsman, by nature jocose,
Can cheerfully dine on a dishful of brose,
And the grace be a wish to get plenty of those.
O! the kail brose of auld Scotland.
And O for the Scottish kail brose!
Broad Swords of Scotland.
[Written by J. G. Lockhart, to the tune of "Oh, the Roast Beef of Old England," and first published in 1822, in George Thomson's collection, and here inserted by special permission.]
Now there's peace on the shore, now there's calm on the sea,
Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free,
Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee.
Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland!
And oh, the old Scottish broadswords.
Old Sir Ralph Abereromby, the good and the brave—
Let him flee from our board, let him sleep with the slave,
Whose libation comes slow while we honour his grave.
Oh, the broadswords, &c.
Though he died not like him amid victory's roar,
Though disaster and gloom wove his shroud on the shore,
Not the less we remember the spirit of Moore.
Oh, the broadswords, &c.
Yea, a place with the fallen the living shall claim,
We'll entwine in one wreath every glorious name,
The Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and the Graham,
All the broadswords, &c.
Count the rocks of the Spey, count the groves of the Forth,
Count the stars in the clear cloudless heaven of the north,
Then go blazon their numbers, their names, and their worth,
All the broadswords, &c.
The highest in splendour, the humblest in place,
Stand united in glory, as kindred in race,
For the private is brother in blood to his grace.
Oh, the broadswords, &c.
Then sacred to each and to all let it be,
Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free,
Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose and Dundee,
Oh, the broadswords of Old Scotland!
And oh, the old Scottish broadswords!
Song of Death.
[In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, 17th Dec. 1791, Burns says:—"I have just finished the following song, which, to a lady, the descendant of many heroes of his truly illustrious line, and herself the mother of several soldiers, needs neither preface nor apology. Scene, a field of battle—time of the day, evening,—the wounded and dying are supposed to join in the song. The circumstance that gave rise to it was looking over, with a musical friend, Macdonald's collection of Highland Airs, I was struck with one, an Isle of Skye tune, entitled Oran an Aoig, or the Song of Death, to the measure of which I have adapted my stanzas."—Thomson, in his collection, does not give the Gaelic air, but sets the words to the Irish tune of "My lodging is on the cold ground." The original tune is given in Ritson's collection.]
Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies,
Now gay with the bright setting sun!
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties!
Our race of existence is run.
Thou grim King of Terrors, thou life's gloomy foe,
Go frighten the coward and slave!
Go teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know
No terrors hast thou to the brave.
