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 Cunningham's Songs of Scotland, vol. 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 him;
But O, 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 Burns: the second stanza is his, and most of the third."-CUNNINGHAM.]
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!
Grim vengeance lang has ta'en a nap,
But we may see him wauken :
Gude help the day when royal heads
Are hunted like a maukin.
Awa whigs, awa,
Awa whigs, awa;
Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns,
Y'll ne'er do good at a'.
["Burns trimmed up this Jacobite song for the Musical Museum of Johnson, the verses beginning "Our ancient crown's fa'n to the dust," and "Grim vengeance lang has taen a nap," are from his hand."-CUNNINGHAM.}
Cope sent a challenge frae Dunbar-
Come, Charlie, meet me gin ye daur,
And I'll learn you the art of war,
If you'll meet me in the morning.
My men are bauld, my steeds are rude;
They'll dye their hoofs in highland blood,
And eat their hay in Holyrood
By ten to-morrow morning.
When Charlie looked the letter on,
He drew his sword the scabbard from--
Come follow me my merry merry men
To meet Johnie Cope in the morning.
Hey, Johnie Cope, are ye waking yet,
Or are your drums abeating yet?
Wi' claymore sharp and music sweet
We'll make ye mirth i' the morning.
Atween the gray day and the sun
The highland pipes came skirling on;
Now fye, Johnie Cope, get up and run,
"Twill be a bloody morning.
O yon's the warpipes' deadlie strum,
It quells our fife and drowns our drum;
The bonnets blue and broadswords come-
'Twill be a bloody morning.
Now, Johnie Cope, be as good's your word,
And try our fate wi' fire and sword;
And takna wing like a frighten'd bird
That's chased frae its nest in the morning,
The warpipes gave a wilder screed,
The clans came down wi' wicked speed :
He laid his leg out o'er a steed-
I wish you a good morning,
Moist wi' his fear and spurring fast,
An auld man speered as Johnie past→
How speeds it wi' your gallant host?
I trow they've got their corning.
I'faith, quo' Johnie, I got a fleg
Frae the claymore and philabeg:
If I face them again, deil break my leg,
So I wish you a good morning.
["Johnie Cope is an universal favourite in Scotland; and no song in existence has so many curious variations. The present copy is made out of various versions."-CUNNINGHAM.]
AMBITION IS NO CURE FOR LOVE.
My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook,
And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook :
No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove;
Ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love.
But what had my youth with ambition to do?
Why left I Amynta, why broke I my vow?
Through regions remote in vain do I rove,
And bid the wide world secure me from love.
Ah, fool! to imagine that aught could subdue
A love so well founded, a passion so true!
Ah, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore,
And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more!
Alas, 'tis too late at thy fate to repine!
Poor shepherd, Amynta no more can be thine!
Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain,
The moments neglected return not again.
Ah, what had my youth with ambition to do?
Why left I Amynta, why broke I my vow?
[Sir W. Scott alludes to what he calls this "beautiful pastoral song," in the Lay of the last Minstrel. Sir Gilbert Elliot was the father of the first Lord Minto.]
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