The laird of MʻIntosh is coming,
M'Crabie and M‘Donald's coming,
M‘Kenzie and M‘Pherson's coming,
And the wild M‘Craws are coming-

Little wat ye wha’s coming,

Donald Gun and a's coming.
They gloom, they glour, they look sae hig,
At ilka stroke they'll fell a Whig ;
They'll fright the fuds of the pockpuds,
For many a buttock bare's coming-

Little wat ye wha's coming,
Jock, and Tam, and a's coming.

[Written, it is supposed, about the time of Marr's march to Sheriffmuir.)

LASSIE, LIE NEAR ME.

Lang ha'e we parted been,

Lassie, my dearie;
Now we are met again,
Lassie, lie near me.
Near me, near me,

Lassie, lie near me ;
Lang hast thou lain thy lane,

Lassie, lie near me.
Frae dread Culloden's field,

Bloody and dreary,
Mourning my country's fate,

Lanely and weary ;
VOL. II.

L

Weary, weary,

Lanely and weary;
Become a sad banish'd wight,

Far frae my dearie.

Lond, loud the wind did roar,

Stormy and eerie,
Far frae my native shore,
Far frae my dearie.
Near me, near me,

Dangers stood near me;
Now I've escap'd them a',

Lassie, lie near me.

A' that I ha'e endur'd,

Lassie, my dearie,
Here in thine arms is cur'd-
Lassie, lie near me.
Near me, near me,

Lassie, lie near me ;
Lang hast thou lain thy lan ,

Lassie, lie near me.

[The first and last verses from the third volume of Johnson's Musical Museum, 1790 ; the other lines are from Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song, 1810., It is not always safe to quote the latter work as an authority for old song, but in this place the Editor has reason to know he is giving genuine Jacobitical verses. Robert Chambers has strangely placed the name of Dr. Blacklock to the verses of this song quoted from Johnson.)

ROYAL CHARLIE.

The wind comes frae the land I love,

It moves the gray flood rarely ;Look for the lily on the lea,

And look for Royal Charlie.
Ten thousand swords shall leave their sheaths,

And smite fu’ sharp and sairly ;
And Gordon's might, and Erskine's pride,

Shall live and die wi' Charlie.
The sun shines out- wide smiles the sea,

The lily blossoms rarely ;-
O yonder comes his gallant ship-

Thrice welcome, royal Charlie !
Yes, yon's a good and gallant ship,

Wi' banners flaunting fairly :
But should it meet your darling prince,

'Twill feast the fish wi' Charlie. Wide rustled she her silks in pride,

And wav'd her white hand lordlie-
And drew a bright sword from the sheath,

And answered high and proudlie.
I had three sons, and a good lord,

Wha sold their lives fu' dearlie
And wi' their dust I'd mingle mine,

For love of gallant Charlie.
It wad hae made a bale heart sair

To see our horsemen flying ;-
And

my three bairns, and my good lord, Amang the dead and dying:

I snatched a banner-led them back

The white rose flourish'd rarely :The deed I did for royal James

I'd do again for Charlie.

(From Cupningham's Songs of Scotland, rol. iii. p. 248.)

O'ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE.

Come boat me o’er, come row me o'er,

Come boat me o'er to Charlie !
I'll gie John Brown another half crown

To boat me o'er to Charlie.
We'll o'er the water, we'll o'er the sea,

We'll o'er the water to Charlie ;
Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go,

And live or die wi' Charlie.

I lo'e weel my Charlie's name,

Though some there be abhor hiin ; But 0, to see auld Nick

gaun

hame Wi' Charlie's faes afore him. We'll o'er the water, we'll o'er the sea,

We'll o'er the water to Charlie; Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go,

And live or die wi' Charlie.

I swear and vow by moon and stars,

And sun that shines so early, If I had twenty thousand lives,

I'd die as aft for Charlie.

We'll o'er the water, we'll o'er the sea,

We'll o'er the water to Charlie ;
Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go,

And live or die wi' Charlie.

(From Johnson's Mus. Mus. vol. ii. 1788. “Some of these lines are old, and some of them are from the pen of Buras : the second stanza is his, and most of the third."-CUNNINGHAN.)

AWA WHIGS, AWA.

Our thistles flourish'd fresh and fair,

And bonny bloom'd our roses,
But whigs came like a frost in June,
And wither'd a' our posies.
Awa whigs, awa,

Awa whigs, awa;
Ye're but a pack o' traitor loons,

Ye'll ne'er do good at a'.

Our sad decay in church and state

Surpasses my descriving;
The whigs came o’er us for a curse,

And we have done wi' thriving.

Our ancient crown's fa'n i' the dust,

Deil blind them wi' the stour o't!
And write their names i' his black beuk,

Wha ga'e the whigs the power o't!