The Book of Scottish Song/Bannocks o' Barley

Bannocks o' Barley.

[Air, "Fitz Roy's rambles through Glasgow."]

An auld Hielan' couple sat lane by the ingle,
While smoking their cutties and cracking awa',
They spak' o' langsyne, o' their daffing when single,
O' the freaks o' their childhood, their auld age and a'.
To his wifie he bragged o' his bauldest o' actions,
When he was a sodger wi' Geordie the Third;
How his faes fell before him, the leader o' factions,
And Donald he grat as his faes bit the yird.
Sae up wi' the kilties and bonnie blue bonnets,
When put to their mettle they're ne'er kent to fail,
For a Hielander's heart is upheld wi' a haggis,
And weel butter'd bannocks o' barley meal.

Thus Donald was bless'd, and his wife heard wi' pleasure,
His stories o' danger, his troubles and toils;
My kintra, he cried, is my heart's dearest treasure,
And Mary, thou'rt next, for I lo'e thy saft smiles.
This poor happy couple, their broom covered dwelling
Stood far frae the world, its tidings and cares,
And the news never reached their snug little cottage,
Unless when a packman stepped in wi' his wares.
Sae up wi' the kilties, &c.

The Romans, langsyne, loot a claught at our bannock,
The Danes and the Normans would try the same game;
But Donald cam' down wi' his claymore and crummock,
Mauled maist o' them stark, chased the lave o' them hame.
And should ony mair ever play sic a plisky,
She vows by the dirk o' the Laird o' Kintail,
That she'll part wi' her bluid, or she'll part wi' her whiskey,
Ay, or part wi' her bannocks o' barley meal.
Sae up wi' the kilties, &c.

There's Mungo M'Farlane, the Laird o' Drumgarlin,
A birsy auld carle o' three score and five,
He'll wield his lang arm, and he'll gi'e them a harlin',
And keep his ain grun wi' the glegest alive.
There's Michael the sodger, that fought wi' the rebels,
And lost his left leg just a wee e'er they ran,
But he's got ane o' wood, and he gars it play thud,
And whare there's a row, Michael's aye in the thrang.
Sae up wi' the kilties, &c.

Then fill up a glass, let us ha'e a guid waught o't,
Our mither Meg's mutch be't our care to keep clean,
And the foul silly loon that would try to lay claught o't,
May Clootie's lang claws haul oot baith o' his een.
She's auld, but she's raukled, she'll no bide their scorning,
She'll beat them when tried in a battle, I'd bail;
Sae we'll ne'er let her want Athole brose in the morning,
Nor weel buttered bannocks o' barley meal.
Sae up wi' the kilties, &c.

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