The Book of Scottish Song/To Daunton me
To Daunton me.
I.
[The tune of "To Daunton me" is at least more than a hundred years old, as it is to be found in Oswald, (1740.) The following words are chiefly by Burns, and were written by him for Johnson's Museum. Part of the chorus and some of the rest of the words are old.]
The blude-red rose at Yule may blaw,
The summer lilies bloome in snaw,
The frost may freeze the deepest sea;
But an auld man shall never daunton me!
To daunton me, and me sae young,
Wi' his fause heart and flatterin' tongue!
That is the thing ye ne'er shall see;
For an auld man shall never daunton me.
For a' his meal, for a' his maut,
For a' his fresh beef and his saut,
For a' his gowd and white monie,
An auld man shall never daunton me.
His gear may buy him kye and yowes,
His gear may buy him glens and knowes;
But me he shall not buy nor fee;
For an auld man shall never daunton me.
He hirples twa-fauld, as he dow,
Wi' his teethless gab and auld bauld pow,
And the rain rins doun frae his red-blear'd e'e:
That auld man shall never daunton me.
II.
[JACOBITE VERSION.]
[In Hogg's "Jacobite Reliques" we have no less than three Jacobite songs with the title "To Daunton me," and another to the same tune. We give the first and the best. It is also to be found in Cromek.]
To daunton me, and me sae young,
And guid king James's auldest son!
O, that's the thing that ne'er can be;
For the man is unborn that'll daunton me!
O, set me ance on Scottish land,
My guid braidsword into my hand,
My blue bonnet abune my bree,
And shaw me the man that'll daunton me.
It's nae the battle's deadly stoure,
Nor friends proved false, that'll gaur me cower;
But the reckless hand o' povertie,
O, that alane can daunton me.
High was I born to kingly gear,
But a cuif cam' in my cap to wear;
But wi' my broadsword I'll let him see
He's nae the man to daunton me.
O, I ha'e scarce to lay me on,
Of kingly fields were ance my ain,
Wi' the muir-cock on the mountain bree;
But hardship ne'er can daunton me.
Up cam' the gallant chief Lochiel,
And drew his glaive o' nut-brown steel,
Says, Charlie, set your fit to me,
And shaw me wha will daunton thee!