Part 35

They fell fu close on ilka side, Sic fun ye never saw; For Hielan swords gied clash for clash, At the battle o Harlaw.

The Hielanmen, wi their lang swords, They laid on us fu sair, An they drave back our merry men Three acres breadth an mair.

Brave Forbës to his brither did say, “Noo brither, dinna ye see? They beat us back on ilka side, An we’se be forced to flee.”

“Oh no, oh no, my brither dear, That thing maun never be; Tak ye your good sword in your hand, An come your wa’s wi me.”

“Oh no, oh no, my brither dear, The clans they are ower strang, An they drive back our merry men, Wi swords baith sharp an lang.”

Brave Forbës drew his men aside, Said, “Tak your rest a while, Until I to Drumminnor send, To fess my coat o mail.”

The servan he did ride, An his horse it did na fail, For in twa hours an a quarter He brocht the coat o mail.

Then back to back the brithers twa Gaed in amo the thrang, An they hewed doun the Hielanmen, Wi swords baith sharp an lang.

Macdonell he was young an stout, Had on his coat o mail, And he has gane oot throw them a’ To try his han himsell.

The first ae straik that Forbës strack, He garrt Macdonell reel; An the neist ae straik that Forbës strack, The great Macdonell fell.

And siccan a lierachie, I’m sure ye never sawe As wis amo the Hielanmen, When they saw Macdonell fa.

An whan they saw that he was deid, They turnd and ran awa, An they buried him in Legget’s Den, A large mile frae Harlaw.

They rade, they ran, an some did gang, They were o sma record; But Forbës and his merry men, They slew them a’ the road.

On Monanday, at mornin, The battle it began, On Saturday at gloamin’, Ye’d scarce kent wha had wan.

An sic a weary buryin, I’m sure ye never saw, As wis the Sunday after that, On the muirs aneath Harlaw.

Gin anybody speer at ye For them ye took awa, Ye may tell their wives and bairnies, They’re sleepin at Harlaw.

DICKIE MACPHALION

(Sharpe’s Ballad Book, No. XIV.)

I WENT to the mill, but the miller was gone, I sat me down, and cried ochone! To think on the days that are past and gone, Of Dickie Macphalion that’s slain. Shoo, shoo, shoolaroo, To think on the days that are past and gone, Of Dickie Macphalion that’s slain.

I sold my rock, I sold my reel, And sae hae I my spinning wheel, And a’ to buy a cap of steel For Dickie Macphalion that’s slain! Shoo, shoo, shoolaroo, And a’ to buy a cap of steel For Dickie Macphalion that’s slain.

A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE

(Border Minstrelsy, vol. ii., p. 357.)

THIS ae nighte, this ae nighte, Every nighte and alle, Fire, and sleet, and candle-lighte, And Christe receive thye saule.

When thou from hence away art paste, Every nighte and alle, To Whinny-muir thou comest at laste; And Christe receive thye saule.

If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, Every nighte and alle, Sit thee down and put them on; And Christe receive thye saule.

If hosen and shoon thou ne’er gavest nane, Every nighte and alle, The whinnes sall pricke thee to the bare bane; And Christe receive thye saule.

From Whinny-muir when thou mayst passe, Every nighte and alle, To Brigg o’ Dread thou comest at laste, And Christe receive thye saule.

From Brigg o’ Dread when thou mayst passe, Every nighte and alle, To Purgatory fire thou comest at last, And Christe receive thye saule.