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The flames will get baith hat and wig,
As ofttimes they've got a' that;
Our Highland lad will wear the crown,
And aye be blythe for a' that.

And then our brave militia lads
Will be rewarded duly,

When they fling by their black cockades,
That hellish colour truly.

As night is banish'd by the day,

The white will drive awa' that; The sun will then his beams display, And we'll be blythe for a' that.

BONNIE LADDIE, HIGHLAND LADDIE.

ANONYMOUS.

WHERE hae ye been a' the day,

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie?

Saw ye him that's far away,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie?
On his head a bonnet blue,

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie;
Tartan plaid and Highland trews,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie.

When he drew his gude braidsword,
Then he gave his royal word,

That frae the field he ne'er wad flee,
But wi' his friends wad live and dee.

Weary fa' the Lawland loon

Wha took frae him the British croun;
But blessings on the kilted clans

That fought for him at Prestonpans.

Geordie sits in Charlie's chair,
Deil tak him gin he bide there;

Charlie yet shall mount the throne,
Weel ye ken it is his own.

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Ken ye the news I hae to tell?
Cumberland's awa' to hell.

When he cam to the Stygian shore,
The deil himsel' wi' fright did roar.

Charon grim cam' out to him,
Ye're welcome here, ye deevil's limb;
He tow'd him o'er wi' curse and ban,
Whiles he sank and whiles he swam.

On him they pat a philabeg,
An' in his lug they ramm'd a peg;
How he did skip and he did roar !
The deils ne'er saw sic fun before.

They took him neist to Satan's ha',
There to lilt wi' his grandpapa;
Says Cumberland, I'll no gang ben,
For fear I meet wi' Charlie's men.

Oh, nought o' that ye hae to fear,
For fient a ane o' them comes here.
The deil sat girnin in the neuk,
Ryving sticks to roast the Duke.

They clapp'd him in an arm-chair,
And fast in chains they bound him there;

And aye they kept it het below,
Wi' peats an' divots frae Glencoe.

They put him then upon a speet,
And roasted him baith head and feet;
Then ate him up baith stoop and roop,

And that's the gate they served the Duke.

This famous Jacobite song, the best known perhaps of any of the collection, was the last revenge of the Highlanders upon their conqueror, the Duke of Cumberland, -a name that is still as much hated in the Highlands as that of Cromwell is in Ireland. The words "Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie," are usually repeated in singing at the conclusion of each line.

HERE'S A HEALTH.

Partly by Burns.

HERE'S a health to them that's awa',
Here's a health to them that's awa';
And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause,
May never guid luck be their fa'!
It's guid to be merry and wise,
It's guid to be honest and true,
It's guid to support Caledonia's cause,
And bide by the buff and the blue.

Here's a health to them that's awa',

Here's a health to them that's awa';

Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan,
Although that his band be but sma'.

May liberty meet with success !

May prudence protect her frae evil!
May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist,

And wander their way to the devil!

Here's a health to them that's awa',

Here's a health to them that's awa';

Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie,

That lives at the lug o' the law!

Here's freedom to him that wad read,

Here's freedom to him that wad write;

There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be heard,

But they wham the truth wad indite.

Here's a health to them that's awa',

Here's a health to them that's awa';

Here's chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth gowd,

Though bred amang mountains o' snaw!

Here's a health to them that's awa',

Here's a health to them that's awa';

And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause,
May never guid luck be their fa'!

Many modern imitations of this old genuine Jacobite song have been written and published.

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THICKEST night o'erhangs my dwelling,
Howling tempests o'er me rave;
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling,
Still surround my lonely cave.
Crystal streamlets gently flowing,
Busy haunts of base mankind,
Western breezes, softly blowing,
Suit not my distracted mind.

In the cause of right engaged,
Wrongs injurious to redress,
Honour's war we strongly waged,

But the heavens deny'd success.

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us,
Not a hope that dare attend,
The wide world is all before us;

But a world without a friend!

Supposed to refer to the story of James Drummond, Earl of Strathallan, who escaped to France after the '45. "The air," says Burns, "is the composition of one of the worthiest and best-hearted men living-Allan Masterton, schoolmaster in Edinburgh. As he and I were both sprouts of Jacobitism, we agreed to dedicate the words and air to that cause. To tell the matter of fact, except when my passions were heated by some accidental cause, my Jacobitism was merely by way of vive la bagatelle."

THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT.

BURNS.

THE small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning,
The murmuring streamlet runs clear through the vale;
The hawthorn-trees blow in the dews of the morning,
And wild-scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale.

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair,
While the lingering moments are number'd by care?
No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing,
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.

The deed that I dared could it merit their malice,
A king and a father to place on his throne?

His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys,
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none.

But 'tis not my sufferings, thus wretched, forlorn,
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn ;
Your deeds proved so loyal in hot bloody trial,
Aļas! can I make you no sweeter return?

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