Part 20

“O it’s I hae seven braw sons,” she says, “And the youngest ne’er saw his daddie, And altho’ I had as mony mae, I wad gie them a’ to Charlie.

“But gin my good lord had been at hame, As this night he is wi’ Charlie, There durst na a Campbell in a’ the west Hae plundered the bonnie house o’ Airly.”

ROB ROY

(Child, vol. vi. Early Edition.)

ROB ROY from the Highlands cam, Unto the Lawlan’ border, To steal awa a gay ladie To haud his house in order. He cam oure the lock o’ Lynn, Twenty men his arms did carry; Himsel gaed in, an’ fand her out, Protesting he would many.

“O will ye gae wi’ me,” he says, “Or will ye be my honey? Or will ye be my wedded wife? For I love you best of any.” “I winna gae wi’ you,” she says, “Nor will I be your honey, Nor will I be your wedded wife; You love me for my money.”

* * * * *

But he set her on a coal-black steed, Himsel lap on behind her, An’ he’s awa to the Highland hills, Whare her frien’s they canna find her.

* * * * *

“Rob Roy was my father ca’d, Macgregor was his name, ladie; He led a band o’ heroes bauld, An’ I am here the same, ladie. Be content, be content, Be content to stay, ladie, For thou art my wedded wife Until thy dying day, ladie.

“He was a hedge unto his frien’s, A heckle to his foes, ladie, Every one that durst him wrang, He took him by the nose, ladie. I’m as bold, I’m as bold, I’m as bold, an more, ladie; He that daurs dispute my word, Shall feel my guid claymore, ladie.”

THE BATTLE OF KILLIE-CRANKIE

(Child, vol. vii. Early Edition.)

CLAVERS and his Highlandmen Came down upo’ the raw, man, Who being stout, gave mony a clout; The lads began to claw then. With sword and terge into their hand, Wi which they were nae slaw, man, Wi mony a fearful heavy sigh, The lads began to claw then.

O’er bush, o’er bank, o’er ditch, o’er stark, She flang amang them a’, man; The butter-box got many knocks, Their riggings paid for a’ then. They got their paiks, wi sudden straiks, Which to their grief they saw, man: Wi clinkum, clankum o’er their crowns, The lads began to fa’ then.

Hur skipt about, hur leapt about, And flang amang them a’, man; The English blades got broken beads, Their crowns were cleav’d in twa then. The durk and door made their last hour, And prov’d their final fa’, man; They thought the devil had been there, That play’d them sic a paw then.

The Solemn League and Covenant Came whigging up the hills, man; Thought Highland trews durst not refuse For to subscribe their bills then. In Willie’s name, they thought nag ane Durst stop their course at a’, man, But hur-nane-sell, wi mony a knock, Cry’d, “Furich—Whigs awa’,” man.

Sir Evan Du, and his men true, Came linking up the brink, man; The Hogan Dutch they feared such, They bred a horrid stink then. The true Maclean and his fierce men Came in amang them a’, man; Nane durst withstand his heavy hand. All fled and ran awa’ then.

Oh’ on a ri, Oh’ on a ri, Why should she lose King Shames, man? Oh’ rig in di, Oh’ rig in di, She shall break a’ her banes then; With furichinish, an’ stay a while, And speak a word or twa, man, She’s gi’ a straike, out o’er the neck, Before ye win awa’ then.

Oh fy for shame, ye’re three for ane, Hur-nane-sell’s won the day, man; King Shames’ red-coats should be hung up, Because they ran awa’ then. Had bent their brows, like Highland trows, And made as lang a stay, man, They’d sav’d their king, that sacred thing, And Willie’d ran awa’ then.

ANNAN WATER

(Child, vol. ii. Early Edition.)

“ANNAN water’s wading deep, And my love Annie’s wondrous bonny; And I am laith she suld weet her feet, Because I love her best of ony.

“Gar saddle me the bonny black,— Gar saddle sune, and make him ready: For I will down the Gatehope-Slack, And all to see my bonny ladye.”—

He has loupen on the bonny black, He stirr’d him wi’ the spur right sairly; But, or he wan the Gatehope-Slack, I think the steed was wae and weary.

He has loupen on the bonny gray, He rade the right gate and the ready; I trow he would neither stint nor stay, For he was seeking his bonny ladye.

O he has ridden o’er field and fell, Through muir and moss, and mony a mire; His spurs o’ steel were sair to bide, And fra her fore-feet flew the fire.

“Now, bonny grey, now play your part! Gin ye be the steed that wins my deary, Wi’ corn and hay ye’se be fed for aye, And never spur sall make you wearie.”