The Poetical Works of Robert Burns/On the Battle of Sheriff-Muir
For other versions of this work, see The Battle of Sheriff-Muir (Burns).
ON THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR,
BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND THE EARL OF MAR.
TUNE—'THE CAMERONIAN RANT.'
'O cam ye here the fight to shun,Or herd the sheep wi' me, man?Or were you at the Sherra-muir,And did the battle see, man?'I saw the battle, sair and teugh,And reeking-red ran monie a sheugh,My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough,To hear the thuds, and see the cludsO' clans frae woods, in tartan duds,Wha glaum'd at Kingdoms three, man.
The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades,To meet them were na slaw, man;They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd,And monie a bouk did fa', man:And great Argyle led on his files,I wat they glanced twenty miles:They hack'd and hash'd, while broadswords clash'd,And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd,Till fey men died awa, man.
But had you seen the philibegs,And skyrin tartan trews, man,When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs,And covenant true blues, man;In lines extended lang and large,When bayonets oppos'd the targe,And thousands hasten'd to the charge,Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheathDrew blades o' death, till, out of breath,They fled like frighted doos, man.
'O how deil, Tam, can that be true?The chase gaed frae the north, man:I saw mysel, they did pursueThe horsemen back to Forth, man;And at Dumblane, in my ain sight,They took the brig wi' a' their might,And straught to Stirling wing'd their flight;But, cursed lot! the gates were shut,And monie a huntit, poor red-coat,For fear amaist did swarf, man.'
My sister Kate cam up the gateWi' crowdie unto me, man;She swore she saw some rebels runFrae Perth unto Dundee, man:Their left-hand general had nae skill,The Angus lads had nae guid-will,That day their neebors' blood to spill;For fear, by foes, that they should loseTheir cogs o' brose; all crying woes,And so it goes, you see, man.
They've lost some gallant gentlemenAmang the Highland clans, man;I fear my lord Panmure is slain,Or fallen in whiggish hands, man:Now wad ye sing this double fight,Some fell for wrang, and some for right;But monie bade the world guid-night;Then ye may tell, how pell and mell,By red claymores, and muskets' knell,Wi' dying yell, the tories fell,And whigs to hell did flee, man.