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Suppose, ah, suppose, that some cruel, cruel wound
Should pierce your Highland laddie, and all your hopes confound.
The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly,
The spirit of a Highland chief would lighten in his eye.

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But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonnie bounds, But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonnie bounds. His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds, While wide through all our Highland hills his warlike name


This song was written for the collection of Mr. George Thomson after the death of Burns. The subject was the departure for the Continent with his regiment of the Marquis of Huntly in 1799.

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WILLIAM GLEN. Air -" Whistle o'er the lave o't."

Sing, a’ye bards, wi' loud acclaim,
High glory gi'e to gallant Grahame,
Heap laurels on our marshal's fame,

Wha conquer'd at Vittoria.
Triumphant freedom smiled on Spain,
An' raised her stately form again,
Whan the British Lion shook his mane

On the mountains o' Vittoria.

Let blust'rin' Suchet crously crack,
Let Joseph rin the coward's track,
And Jourdan wish his baton back

He left upon Vittoria ;
If e'er they meet their worthy king,
Let them dance roun' him in a ring,
An' some Scottish piper play the spring

He blew them at Vittoria.

Gi'e truth an' honour to the Dane,
Gi'e German's monarch heart and brain;
But aye in sic a cause as Spain,

Gi'e Britons a Vittoria.

The English Rose was ne'er sae red,
The Shamrock waved whare glory led,
And the Scottish Thistle raised its head

An' smiled upon Vittoria.

Loud was the battle's stormy swell,
Whare thousands fought and mony fell ;
But the Glasgow heroes bore the bell

At the battle of Vittoria.
The Paris maids may ban them a',
Their lads are maistly wede awa,
An' cauld an' pale as wreaths o' snaw
They lie



Wi' quakin' heart and tremblin' knees
The Eagle standard-bearer flees,
While the “meteor-flag" floats to the breeze,

An' wantons on Vittoria.
Britannia's glory there was shown
By the undaunted Wellington,
An' the tyrant trembled on his throne,

Whan hearin' o' Vittoria.

Peace to the spirits o' the brave,
Let a' their trophies for them wave,
An' green be our Cadogan's grave

Upon thy field, Vittoria !
There let eternal laurels bloom,
While maidens mourn his early doom,
An' deck his lowly honour'd tomb

Wi’ roses on Vittoria.

Ye Caledonian war-pipes, play ;
Barossa heard your Highlan'lay,
An' the gallant Scot show'd there that day

A prelude to Vittoria.
Shout to the heroes-swell ilk voice
To them wha made poor Spain rejoice ;
Shout Wellington an’ Lynedoch, boys,

Barossa an' Vittoria !


ANONYMOUS. About the year 1801. WHEN Abercromby, gallant Scot,

·Made Britain's faes to tack again, To fight by him it was my lot ;

But now I'm safe come back again. The cannons didna Donald fleg,

I'd like to hear them crack again ; My fears were for my bonnie Meg,

Lest I should ne'er come back again. Our leader fell,—so died the brave,

We'll never see his like again ; I was denied a sodger's grave,

For I am safe come back again. It's true they've ta’en frae me a leg ;

But wha for that would mak'a maen! Cheer up your heart, my bonnie Meg,

I've brought a leal heart back again. And though the wound it carried smart,

And twitch'd me sair wi' rackin' pain, Wi' honour's scars I wadna part,

Nor yet my leg take back again.
Cheer up your heart since I am here,
Wi' smiles
your cheek


deck again; Cheer up, my lass, an' dinna fear,

Your Donald's safe come back again. Though mony a rattlin' blast has blawn,

There's plenty in the stack again; My wee lock siller's a'


ain Now sin? I'm safe come back again. Now may the wars for ever cease,

Your heart nae mair to rack again ; And may we live in love and peace,

Sin' Donald's safe come back again. But should my country call me forth

Her freedom to protect again, Claymore in hand I'd leave the North,

If I should ne'er come back again.

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CALEDONIA ! thou land of the mountain and rock,

Of the ocean, the mist, and the wind;
Thou land of the torrent, the pine, and the oak,

Of the roebuck, the hart, and the hind ;
Though bare are thy cliffs, and though barren thy glens,

Though bleak thy dun islands appear,
Yet kind are the hearts and undaunted the clans

That roam on these mountains so drear.

A foe from abroad, or a tyrant at home,

Could never thy ardour restrain;
The marshall’d array of imperial Rome

Essay'd thy proud spirit in vain !
Firm seat of religion, of valour, of truth,

Of genius unshackled and free,
The Muses have left all the vales of the south,

My loved Caledonia, for thee !

Sweet land of the bay and the wild-winding deeps,

Where loveliness slumbers at even,
While far in the depth of the blue water sleeps

A calm little motionless heaven !

Thou land of the valley, the moor, and the hill,

Of the storm and the proud rolling waveYes, thou art the land of fair liberty still,

And the land of my forefathers' grave !

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LET them boast of the country gave Patrick his fame,
Of the land of the ocean and Anglian name,

With the red-blushing roses and shamrock so green :
Far dearer to me are the hills of the North,
The land of blue mountains, the birth-place of worth ;
Those mountains where Freedom has fix'd her abode,
Those wide-spreading glens where no slave ever trode,

Where blooms the red heather and thistle so green.

Though rich be the soil where blossoms the rose,
And barren the mountains and cover'd with snows

Where blooms the red heather and thistle so green ;
Yet for friendship sincere, and for loyalty true,
And for courage so bold which no foe could subdue,
Unmatch'd is our country, unrivall’d our swains,
And lovely and true are the nymphs on our plains,

Where rises the thistle, the thistle so green.

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