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O’ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE.

From "Hogg's Jacobite Relics," 1821.

COME, boat me ower, come, row me ower,

Come, boat me ower to Charlie ;
I'll gie John Ross another bawbee
To ferry me ower to Charlie.
We'll over the water, and over the sea,

We'll over the water to Charlie;
Come weel, come woe, we'll gather and go,

And live and die wi’ Charlie.

It's weel I lo'e my Charlie's name,

Though some there be that abhor him; But, oh, to see Auld Nick gaun hame,

And Charlie's faes before him!

I swear by moon and stars sae bricht,

And the sun that glances early, If I had twenty thousand lives,

I'd gie them a' for Charlie.

I ance had sons, I now hae nane ;

I bred them, toiling sairly ; And I wad bear them a' again,

And lose them a' for Charlie !

THE WEE, WEE GERMAN LAIRDIE.

From “Hogg's Jacobite Relics."

Wha the deil hae we gotten for a king,

But a wee, wee German lairdie ?
And, when we gaed to bring him hame,

He was delving in his kail-yardie :
Sheughing kail, and laying leeks,
But the hose, and but the breeks ;
And up his beggar duds he cleeks,

This wee, wee German lairdie.

And he's clapt down in our gudeman's chair,

The wee, wee German lairdie;
And he's brought fouth o' foreign leeks,

And dibbled them in his yardie.
He's pu'd the rose o' English loons,
And broken the harp o' Irish clowns;
But our thistle-tap will jag his thumbs,

This wee, wee German lairdie.

Come up amang our Highland hills,

Thou wee, wee German lairdie;
And see the Stuarts' lang kail thrive,

We dibbled in our yardie;
And if a stock ye dare to pu',
Or haud the yoking o' a plough,
We' break your sceptre o'er your mou',

Thou wee bit German lairdie.

Our hills are steep, our glens are deep,

Nae fitting for a yardie ;
And our Norland thistles winna pu',

Thou wee bit German lairdie :
And we've the trenching blades o’ weir,
Wad prune ye o' your German gear;
We'll pass ye ’neath the claymore's shear,

Thou feckless German lairdie.

Auld Scotland, thou’rt ower cauld a hole

For nursin' siccan vermin ;
But the very dougs o’England's court

They bark and howl in German.
Then keep thy dibble in thy ain hand,
Thy spade but and thy yardie ;
For wha the deil hae we gotten for a king

But a wee, wee German lairdie?

PRINCE CHARLES AND FLORA MACDONALD'S

WELCOME TO SKYE.

From “Hogg's Jacobite Relics." Translated from the Gaelic.

THERE are twa bonny maidens and three bonny maidens

Come o'er the minch and come o'er the main,
O’er the wind and the faem with the corrie for their hame,

Let us welcome them bravely to Skye again.
Come along, come along, wi' your boatie and your song,

Ye twa bonny maidens and three bonny maidens;
For the nicht it is dark, and the red-coat is gone,

And you're bravely welcome to Skye again.

There is Flora my honey, sae dear and sae bonny,

And one that is tall and comely withal ;
But the one as my king and the other as my queen,

They're welcome, welcome to Skye again.
Come along, come along, with your boatie and your song,

Ye twa bonny maidens and three bonny maidens; For the lady of Maclain she lieth her lane,

And you're bravely welcome to Skye again.

Her arm it is strong, and her petticoat is long,

My one bonny maiden and twa bonny maidens;
But their bed shall be clain ʼmid the storm and the rain ;

And they're welcome, welcome to Skye again.
Come along, come along, with your boatie and your song,

You one bonny maiden and twa bonny maidens; By the sea-moullit's nest I'll watch ye o’er the main,

And you're dearly welcome to Skye again.

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There's a wind on the tree and a ship on the sea,

My twa bonny maidens and three bonny maidens;
On the lea of the rock shall your cradle be rock'd;

And you're welcome, welcome to Skye again.
Come along, come along, wi' your boatie and your song,

My twa bonny maidens and three bonny maidens;
More sound shall you sleep when you rock on the deep ;

And ye’se aye be welcome to Skye again.

AWA', WHIGS, AWA'!

From "Hogg's Jacobite Relics."
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.
A foreign Whiggish loon bought seeds,

In Scottish yaird to cover;
But we'll pu'a' his dibbled leeks.

And pack him to Hanover.
Our ancient crown's fa'n i' the dust,

Deil blind them wi' the stour o't!
And write their names in his black book

Wha ga'e the Whigs the power o't. Grim Vengeance lang has ta'en a nap,

But we may see him wauken ;
God help the day when royal heads

Are hunted like a maukin!
The deil he heard the storm o'tongues,

And ramping came amang us ;
But he pitied us, sae cursed wi’ Whigs,

He turn’d and wadna wrang us.
Sae grim he sat amang the reek,

Thrang bundling brunstane matches ; And croon'd 'mang the beuk-taking Whigs, Scraps of auld Calvin's catches.

Awa', Whigs, awa’!

Awa', Whigs, awa'!
Ye'll rin me out o' brunstane spunks,

And ne'er do good at a'.

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Oh, was not I a weary wight?

Oh, ono chri, oh! oh, ono chri, oh!
Maid, wife, and widow in one night!

Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.
When in my soft and yielding arms,

Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.
When most I thought him free from harms,

Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.
Even at the dead time of the night,

Oh, ono chri, oh ! &c.
They broke my bower, and slew my knight,

Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.
With ae lock of his jet-black hair,

Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.
I'll tie my heart for ever mair;

Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.
Nae sly-tongued youth or flattering swain,

Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.
Shall e'er untie this knot again ;

Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.

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