Enlightenment Songster by MikeJenny

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									The Enlightenment Songster
       A collection of 18th century songs,

             with some of later date,

           each to its own proper tune.



                  Compiled for

 The Eighteenth Century Scottish Studies Society

                       by

       William Donaldson and Ruth Perry

                       2009
                                      CONTENTS

Amelia Earhart                        2           Strangest dream                         16
Auld Lang Syne                        2           Surrounded by water                     16-17
Balm in Gilead                        2           The Barnyards o’ Delgaty                17
Big Kilmarnock Bonnet                 3           The Birks of Abergeldie                 17
Blow the Candles Out                  3           The Bleacher Lassie o’ Kelvinhall       17
Calton Weaver                         3-4         The Bonnie Earl o’ Moray                17-18
Campbeltown Loch                      4           The Bonnie Lass o’ Fyvie                18
Chevaliers du table ronde             4           The Broom of the Cowdenknowes           18-19
Coulter’s Candy                       4           The Crocodile                           19-20
Dowie Dens o’ Yarrow                  4-5         The D-Day Dodgers                       20
Drumdelgie                            5-6         The Day We Went to Rothesay, O          20
Farewell to Tarwathie                 6           The Gallant Forty-Twa                   20-21
Four Pence a Day                      6           The Highland Division’s
Freedom Come All Ye                   6                              farewell to Sicily   21
Get Up and Bar the Door               6-7         The Jute Mill Song                      21
Gin I were where the Gadie rins       7           The Laird o’ Cockpen                    21-22
Glenlogie                             7-8         The Lass o’ Patie’s Mill                22
Goodnight and joy be wi’ you a’       8           The Lum Hat Wantin’ the Croon           22
Hey, ca’ thro’                        8           The road and the miles to Dundee        22-23
Husband, Husband, Cease your Strife   8           The sons of the Prophet
If You will Mairry Me                 8-9                           were hardy and bold   23
I know where I’m going                9           The Soor Mulk Cairt                     23-24
Jamie Raeburn’s Farewell              9           The Star o’ Rabbie Burns                24
Jenny’s Bawbee                        9-10        The Twa Corbies                         24
Johnny Cope                           10          The Wee Magic Stane                     24-25
Logie o’ Buchan                       10-11       The Work o’ the Weavers                 25
MacPherson’s Rant                     11          The Yellow Haired Laddie                25
Maggie Lauder                         11          Three Craws sat upon a Wa’              25-26
Mairi’s Wedding                       11          To the Begging I will Go                26
Mary Hamilton                         11-12       Tramps and Hawkers                      26-27
McGinty’s Meal and Ale                12-13       Tullochgorm                             27
Mingulay Boat Song                    13          Twa Recruiting Sergeants                27-28
Mormond Braes                         13          Waltzing Matilda                        28
No more fish no fishermen             13-14       Waly, Waly, up the Bank                 28
Oh brother Sandy hear ye the news?    14          Wee Toun Clerk                          28-29
Pair o’ Nicky Tams                    14-15       Will Ye No Come Back Again?             29
Pretty Flowers                        15          Willie Brew’d a Peck o’ Maut            29
Puir auld woman                       15          Willie’s gane to Melville Castle        29-30
Roll Alabama roll                     15-16       Ye canna shove your granny aff a bus    30
Rolling home across the sea           16          Ye’ll no sit here                       30
Roseanna                              16




                                              1
Amelia Earhart                                              The birdies frae the Arn tree, wha mixt their notes
A ship out on the ocean, just a speck against the           wi’ mine,
sky                                                         Were not mair blyth, nor fu’ o’ glee whan we did
Amelia Earhart’s flying sad that day;                       lang syne.
With her partner Captain Noonan on the second of
July                                                        I think upo’ the bonny springs, ye used to me to
Her plane fell in the ocean far away.                       play;
                                                            And how we used to dance and sing, the live-lang
   There’s a beautiful beautiful field                      simmer day.
   Far away in a land that is fair;                         Nae fairies on the haunted green, where
   Happy landings to you Amelia Earhart,                    moonbeams twinkling shine,
   Farewell first lady of the air.                          Mair blythly frisked around their Queen, than we
                                                            did lang syne.
She radioed position and said that all was well,
Although the fuel within her tank was low;                  What tho’ I be some aulder grown, and ablins not
But she’d land on Howland island and re-fuel her            so gay;
monoplane                                                   What tho’ my locks o’ hazel brown be now well
And then around the world again she’d go.                   mixed wi’ grey;
                                                            I’m sure my heart’s nae caulder grown, but as my
Well half an hour later her SOS was heard,                  years decline,
Her signal weak but still her voice was brave;              Still friendship’s flame mair kindly glows than it
Over shark infested waters her plane went down              did lang syne.
that
night                                                       Tho’ ye live on the banks of Don, and I beneath the
In the blue Pacific to a watery grave.                      Tay,
                                                            Well might ye ride to Falkland’s Town Some
And now you’ve heard my story of the awful                  bonny simmer’s day.
tragedy                                                     And in that place where Scotland’s Kings aft birl’d
We wish that she might fly home safe again;                 baith Beer and Wine
But in the years to come though others blaze a trail        Let’s meet, an’ laugh, an’ dance, an’ sing, And
across the sky                                              crack of lang syne.
We’ll ne’er forget Amelia and her plane.
                                                            Auld Lang Syne (standard version)
   There’s a beautiful beautiful field, etc.                Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
                                                            And never brought to mind?
                                                            Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
Auld Lang Syne (text attributed to Mrs. Brown               And auld lang syne?
of Falkland)
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, Or friendship              For auld lang syne, my dear,
ere grow cauld;                                                For auld lang syne.
Should we noo tighter draw the knot; aye, as we’re             We'll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
growing auld?                                                  For auld lang syne.
How comes it then, my worthy friend, wha used to
be sae kind?
We dinna for each other speer, as we did lang               Balm in Gilead
syne?                                                       Sometimes I feel discouraged
                                                            And think my work’s in vain;
Tho many a day be past and gane, sin’ we did ither          But then the Holy spirit
see;                                                        Revives my soul again.
Yet gin the heart be still the same, it matters not a
flee.                                                          There is a balm in Gilead to make the wounded
Gin ye hae not forgot the art to sound your harp               whole,
divine,                                                        There is a balm in Gilead to heal the sin-sick
Ye’ll find still I can bear my part and sing as lang        soul.
syne.
                                                            If you can pray like Peter
I think upon the mony days when I, in youthfu’              If you can preach like Paul
pride,                                                      Go out and tell your neighbor
Wi’ you aft rambled o’er the braes on bonny Bogie           He died to save us all.
side.                                                           There is a balm, etc.


                                                        2
                                                           I knocked upon her window to ease her of her pain,
Big Kilmarnock Bonnet                                      She rose up to let me in, then barred the door again.
Whan I was aff to leave the ploo says I to Fairmer
Broon                                                      I like well your behavior and this I often say
‘The money that you are owin’ tae me will you              I cannot rest contented when I am far away
kindly lay it doon                                         I cannot rest contented without a fear or doubt
This very day I mean to be in Glesca toon by half          So roll me in your arms, Love, and blow the
past three                                                 candles out.
I’ll bide nae mair a gackie in the country.’
                                                           Your father and your mother in yonder room do lie
Wi’ ma big Kilmarnock Bonnet as I ran to catch             A-hugging one another, so why not you and I?
the train                                                  A-hugging one another, without a fear or doubt
I’ll never forget the trick that was played on me by       So roll me in your arms, Love, and blow the
Sandy Laing                                                candles out.
Says he ‘mind Jock when ye get tae the toon speir
ye for Katie Bain, ma loon,                                And if we prove successful, Love, please name it
She bides at number eichty street in Glesca.’              after me
                                                           Treat it neat and kiss it sweet and doff it on your
Now, when I got to Glesca toon the first young             knee;
man I met                                                  When my three years are over, my time it will be
I speired at him quite civilly, ‘can ye show me            out
eichty street?’                                            I’ll double my indebtedness by blowing the candles
Wi’ that he bangs me on the lug says he ‘Dae ye            out.
tak me for a mug?
I say young man ye’ll meet yer match in Glesca.’
    Wi’ ma big Kilmarnock Bonnet, etc.                     Calton Weaver
                                                           I am a weaver, a Calton weaver,
I met a bonny lassie then dressed in a strippet            I am a brisk and a roving blade;
frock;                                                     I have silver in my pouches,
She said tae me right cheerily, ‘Hello is that you,        And I follow a roving trade.
Jock?
Yer big Kilmarnock’s aff the plumb come on and                Whisky, whisky, Nancy whisky
staun’s a donal o’ rum,                                       Whisky, whisky, Nancy O.
Hoo lang do you intend to bide in Glesca?’
   Wi’ ma big Kilmarnock Bonnet, etc.                      As I walked into Glasgow city,
                                                           Nancy Whisky I chanced to smell;
Now the lassie in the strippet frock and her               I walked in, sat down beside her
neighbour Katie Bain                                       Seven long years I loved her well.
As long as I live I never do hope to see the pair             Whisky, whisky, Nancy whisky, etc.
again;
They left me wi’ ma breeks and shirt, my big               The more I kissed her, the more I loved her,
Kilmarnock covered wi’ dirt                                The more I kissed her, the more she smiled;
Through rowin’ in the muckle streets o’ Glesca.            I forgot my mother's teaching,
   Wi’ ma big Kilmarnock Bonnet, etc.                      Nancy soon had me beguiled.
                                                               Whisky, whisky, Nancy whisky, etc.
But that’s nae a’ my story, for I’ve mair to tell
beside.                                                    I woke early in the mornin’,
The nicht bein’ dark and me bein’ fou, I fell intae        Tae slake ma drouth it was my need;
the Clyde;                                                 I tried to rise but was not able
They hauled me oot, they ran me in, they swore             Nancy had me by the heid.
they saw me loupin’ in,                                        Whisky, whisky, Nancy whisky, etc.
And I finished up wi’ thirty days in Glesca.               Come landlady, noo, what’s that lawin’?
   Wi’ ma big Kilmarnock Bonnet, etc.                      Tell me what there is tae pay.
                                                           ‘Fifteen shillings is the reck’ning;
                                                           Noo pay me quick and on your way.’
Blow the Candles Out                                           Whisky, whisky, Nancy whisky, etc.
When I was apprenticed in London, I went to see
my dear;                                                   I’ll gang back to the Calton weaving
The roads they were all muddy, the moon shone              I’ll surely mak those shuttles fly;
bright and clear.                                          I’ll make more at the Calton weaving



                                                       3
Than ever I did in a roving way.                       Dans une cave où il y a du bon vin. (2x)
  Whisky, whisky, Nancy whisky, etc.                   Dans une cave oui oui oui,
                                                       Dans une cave non non non,
So come all ye weavers, ye Calton weavers              Dans une cave où il y a du bon vin. (2x)
Weavers a’ where e’re ye be;
Beware of Whisky, Nancy Whisky                         Les deux pieds contre la muraille
She’ll ruin you like she ruined me.                    Et la tête sous le robinet. (2x)
   Whisky, whisky, Nancy whisky, etc.                  Et la tête oui oui oui,
                                                       Et la tête non non non,
                                                       Et la tête sous le robinet. (2x)
Campbeltown Loch I wish you were
Whisky                                                 Sur ma tombe je veux qu'on inscrive:
Oh! Campbeltown Loch, I wish ye were whisky!           ‘Ici gît la reine des buveurs’. (2x)
Campbeltown Loch, och aye!                             Ici gît, oui oui oui,
Campbeltown Loch, I wish ye were whisky!               Ici gît, non non non,
I would drink you dry.                                 Ici gît la reine des buveurs.’ (2x)

Now Campbeltown Loch is a beautiful place,
But the price of the whisky is grim;                   Coulter’s Candy
How nice it would be if the whisky was free            Ally bally ally bally bee
And the loch was filled up to the brim.                Sittin’ on your mammy’s knee,
   Oh! Campbeltown Loch, I wish ye were whisky!        Greetin’ for a wee bawbee
etc.                                                   To buy some Coulter’s candy.

I’d buy a yacht with the money I got                   Ally bally ally bally bee,
And I’d anchor it out in the bay;                      When you grow up you’ll gang to sea;
If I wanted a nip I’d go in for a dip                  To get some pennies for your daddy and me
I’d be swimmin’ by night and by day.                   To buy some Coulter’s candy.
    Oh! Campbeltown Loch, I wish ye were
whisky! etc.                                           Mammy gie’s ma bankie doon,
                                                       Here’s auld Coulter comin’ roon’
But what if the boat should overturn                   Wi’ a basket on his croon
And drowned in the loch was I?                         Filled with Coulter’s candy.
You’d hear me shout, you would hear me call out
‘What a wonderful way to die!’                         Oor wee Jeannie’s lookin’ awfu’ thin,
  Oh! Campbeltown Loch, I wish ye were                 Jist a rickle o’ banes covered o’er with skin;
whisky! etc.                                           But soon she’ll be getting’ a wee double chin
                                                       From soukin’ Coulter's candy.
But what’s this I see, ochone for me
It’s a vision to make your blood freeze:               Here’s a penny my bonny wee man
It’s the polis afloat in a dirty big boat              Doon the road as fast as ye can;
And they’re shouting: ‘Time, gentlemen, please!’       Gie up your money at Coulter’s stand
    Oh! Campbeltown Loch, I wish ye were               For a poke o’ Coulter's candy.
whisky! etc.
                                                       Livin’s afa’ hard the noo,
                                                       Faither’s signin’ on the broo;
Chevaliers de la table ronde                           But he’s got a penny for you
Chevaliers de la table ronde,                          Tae buy some Coulter’s candy.
Goûtons voir si le vin est bon. (2x)
Goûtons voir, oui oui oui,                             Go to sleep my bonny wee lamb,
Goûtons voir, non non non,                             It’s seven o’clock and your playing’s done;
Goûtons voir si le vin est bon. (2x)                   But when you rise with the morning sun
                                                       You’ll get mair Coulter’s candy.
S’il est bon, s’il est agréable,
J’en boirai jusqu`à mon plaisir (2x)
J’en boirai oui oui oui,                               Dowie Dens o’ Yarrow
J’en boirai, non non non,                              There was a lady in the North
J’en boirai jusqu`'à mon plaisir. (2x)                 I never saw her marrow;
                                                       She was courted by nine gentlemen
Si je meurs, je veux qu’on m’enterre                   And a ploughboy lad frae Yarrow.


                                                   4
                                                It’s there to corn oor horses,
These nine sat drinking at the wine             Likewise tae straik their hair.
Sat drinking wine in Yarrow;
And they made a vow among them all              Syne, efter workin’ half-an-hour,
To fecht wi; him on Yarrow.                     Each tae the kitchie goes,
                                                It’s there tae get oor breakfast
She’s washed his face and kaimed his hair       Which generally is brose.
As she has done afore-o;
And she made him like a knicht sae braw         We’ve scarcely got oor brose weel supped,
To fecht for her on Yarrow.                     An gien oor pints a tie,
                                                When the foreman cries, ‘Hello, my lads!
As he went walking tae his home                 The hour is drawin’ nigh,’
Down by the houms o’ Yarrow,
It was there he spied nine gentlemen            At sax o’clock the mull’s put on,
Come to fecht wi' him on Yarrow.                To gie us a’ stracht wark;
                                                An’ sax o’ us we mak’ tae her,
Oh three he slew and three they flew            Till ye could ring oor sark.
And three he wounded sairly;
Till her brother John came in beyond            An when the water is put aff,
And murdered him maist foully.                  We hurry doon the stair,
                                                Tae get some quarters through the fan
Oh faither dear I dreamed a dream               Till daylicht does appear.
A dream o’ doom and sorrow
For I dreamed I was pullin’ heather bells       When daylicht does begin tae peep,
On the dowie dens o’ Yarrow.                    An’ the sky begins tae clear,
                                                The foreman cries ‘Hello, my lads!
Oh dochter dear I read your dream               Ye’ll bide nae langer here!’
I know it will bring sorrow;
For your ain true love lies pale and wan        There’s sax o’ ye’ll gang tae the ploo,
On the dowie dens o’ Yarrow.                    An twa will drive the neeps,
                                                And the owsen they’ll be efter you
As she gaed up yon high high hills              Wi strae raips roon their queets.
Down by the houms o’ Yarrow;
It was there she saw her ain true love          But when that we were gyangin’ oot,
Lyin’ pale and wan on Yarrow.                   An’ turnin’ oot tae yoke,
                                                The snaw dang on sae thick an’ fast
This lady’s hair was three-quarters long        That we were like tae choke.
The color it was yellow;
And she’s tied it round his middle small        The frost it was sae very hard,
And she’s borne him down from Yarrow.           The ploo she wadna go;
                                                An’ sae oor cairtin’ days commenced
Oh faither dear you’ve seven sons               Amang the frost an snaw.
Ye may wed them a’ tomorrow;
But the fairest flower among them all           Our horses bein’ but young and sma’
Is the ploughboy lad frae Yarrow.               The shafts they wadna fill;
                                                An’ aft required the saddler’s aid
                                                To draw them up the hill.
Drumdelgie
There’s a fairm toon up in Cairnie,             But we will sing oor horses’ praise,
That’s kent baith far an wide,                  Though they be young an’ sma,
Tae be the great Drumdelgie                     They far ootshine the Broadland’s anes,
Upon sweet Deveronside.                         That gang sae big an’ braw.

The fairmer o’ yon muckle toon                  Sae fare ye weel, Drumdelgie,
He is baith hard an sair,                       For I maun gang awa;
An the cauldest day that ever blaws,            Sae fare ye weel Drumdelgie,
His servants get their share.                   Yer weety weather an’ a.

At five o’clock we quickly rise                 Sae fare ye weel, Drumdelgie,
An hurry doon the stair;                        I bid ye a’ adieu;



                                            5
I leave ye as I got ye -                                    My mother rises out of bed with tears on her
A damned unceevil crew!                                     cheeks,
                                                            Puts my wallet on my shoulders, which has to serve
                                                            a week;
Farewell to Tarwathie                                       It often fills her great big heart when she unto me
Farewell to Tarwathie, adieu Mormond Hill                   does say,
And the dear land of Crimond, I bid you farewell;           ‘I never thought you would have to work for four
I’m bound out for Greenland and ready to sail,              pence a day.’
In hopes to find riches in hunting the whale
                                                            Fourpence a day, me lads, and very hard to work,
Farewell to my comrades, for a while we must part,          And never a pleasant look from a gruffy looking
And likewise the dear lass who first won my heart;          Turk;
 he cold coast of Greenland my love will not chill          His conscience it may fall and his heart it may give
 And the longer my absence, more loving she’ll              way,
feel.                                                       Then he’ll raise our wages to nine pence a day.

Our ship is well rigged and she’s ready to sail,
The crew they are anxious to follow the whale;              Freedom Come All Ye
Where the icebergs do fall and the stormy winds             Roch the wind in the clear day dawin’,
blow                                                        Blaws the cloods heelster-gowdie o’er the bay;
Where the land and the ocean is covered with                But there’s mair nor a roch wind blawin’
snow.                                                       Through the great glen o’ the warld the day.
                                                            It’s a thocht that would gar oor rottans,
The cold coast of Greenland is barren and bare,             A’ thae rogues that gang gallus, fresh and gay;
No seed-time nor harvest is ever known there;               Tak’ the road tae seek ither loanins
And the birds here sing sweetly in mountain and             For their ill ploys tae sport and play
dale
But there’s no bird in Greenland to sing to the             Nae mair will the bonnie callants
whale.                                                      Mairch tae war when oor braggarts croosely craw
                                                            Nor wee weans frae pitheid and clachan
There is no habitation for a man to live there,             Mourn the ships sailin’ doon the Broomielaw
And the king of that country is the fierce Greenland        Broken faimlies in lands we’ve herriet,
bear;                                                       Will curse Scotland the Brave nae mair, nae mair;
And there’ll be no temptation to tarry long there           Black and white, ane til ither marriet,
With our ship bumper full we will homeward                  Mak the vile barracks o’ their maisters bare.
repair.
                                                            So come all ye at hame wi' Freedom,
                                                            Never heed whit the hoodies croak for doom,
Four Pence a Day                                            In your hoose a’ the bairns o’ Adam
The ore is waiting in the tubs the snow’s upon the          Can find breid, barley-bree and painted room.
fell,                                                       When MacLean meets wi’s freens in Springburn
Canny folk are sleeping yet but lead is reet to sell;       A’ the roses and geans will turn tae bloom,
Come me little washer lad come let’s away;                  And a black boy frae yont Nyanga
We’re bound down to slavery for four pence a day.           Dings the fell gallows o’ the burghers doon.

It’s early in the morning we rise at five o’clock,
And the little slaves come to the door to knock,            Get up and bar the door
knock, knock;                                               It fell about the Martinmas,
Come me little washer lad, come let’s away,                 And a gey time it was than o,
It’s very hard to work for four pence a day.                When our gudewife had puddins to mak’,
                                                            And she boil’d them in the pan o.
My father was a miner and lived down in the town,
’Twas hard work and poverty that always kept him               The barrin’ o’ our door weel, weel, weel,
down;                                                          And the barrin’ o’ our door weel.
He aimed for me to go to school, but brass he could
not pay,                                                    The wind blew cauld fae south to north,
So I had to go to the washing rake for four pence a         It blew across the floor o;
day.                                                        Says our gudeman to our gudewife:
                                                            ‘Get up and bar the door o.’
                                                                The barrin’, etc.


                                                        6
                                                  Oh, gin I were where the Gadie rins,
                                                  At the back o’ Benachie.
‘My hand is at my huswife-skep,
Gudeman, as ye may see o;                         I never had but twa richt lads,
If it shouldna be barr’d this hunner year,        But twa richt lads, but twa richt lads;
It winna be barr’d by me o.’                      I never had but twa richt lads
    The barrin’, etc.                             That cam’ and courtit me.

They made a paction ’tween them twa,              And the tane was killed at the Lourin Fair,
They made it firm and sure o,                     At the Lourin Fair, at the Lourin Fair;
The first that spak’ the foremost word            Oh, the tane was killed at the Lourin Fair
Should rise and bar the door o.                   And the tither was drooned in the Dee.
  The barrin’, etc.
                                                  They bocht tae me a braw new goon,
Then by there came twa gentlemen                  A braw new goon, a braw new goon;
At twelve o’clock at nicht o;                     They bocht for me a braw new goon,
That could neither see house nor ha’,             And ribbons tae busk it wi’.
Nor coal nor candle-licht o.
   The barrin’, etc.                              I bocht tae them the linnen fine,
                                                  The linnen fine, the linnen fine;
‘Now whether is this a rich man’s house           I bocht tae them the linnen fine
Or whether is this a puir o?’                     Their windin’ sheet tae be.
But ne’er a word wad either speak,
For the barrin’ o’ the door o.                    It’s noo this twice I’ve been a bride,
   The barrin’, etc.                              I’ve been a bride, I’ve been a bride;
                                                  It’s noo this twice I’ve been a bride,
And first they ate the white puddins,             But a wife I’ll never be.
And syne they ate the black o;
And muckle thocht our gudewife to hersell,        Oh, gin I were where the Gadie rins,
But never a word she spak’ o.                     Where the Gadie rins, where the Gadie rins;
  The barrin’, etc.                               Oh, gin I were where the Gadie rins,
                                                  At the back o’ Benachie.
Then said the tane unto the tiher:
‘Hey, man, take ye my knife o;
Do ye tak’ aff the auld man’s beard,              Bonnie Glenlogie and Jean o’ Bethelnie
While I kiss the gudewife o.’                     Nine and nine horsemen rode through Banchory
  The barrin’, etc.                               Fair
                                                    And Bonnie Glenlogie was the floor o’ a there
‘But there’s nae water in the house,              [repeat}
And what shall we do than o?’
‘What ails ye at the puddin’ bree                 Nine and nine ladies sat in the Queen’s Dine
That boils into the pan o?’                       And Bonnie Jeanie o’ Bethelnie was the floor o’
   The barrin’, etc.                              twice nine [repeat]

O up then startit our gudeman,                    She’s called her foot boy, who stood by her side
And an angry man was he o:                        ‘O who is that horseman and where does he bide?’
Wad ye kiss my wife before my face,               [repeat}
And scaud me wi’ puddin’ bree o?’
   The barrin’, etc.                              ‘His name is Glenlogie when he is at hame
                                                  He’s o’ the noble Gordons and his name is Lord
Then up and startit our gudewife                  John’ [repeat]
Gied three skips on the floor o:
‘Gudeman, ye spak the foremost word,              ‘Glenlogie, Glenlogie, if you should prove kind
Get up and bar the door o.’                       A maiden’s love is on you, shall she die in her
   The barrin’, etc.                              prime?’ [repeat]

                                                  He turned about lichtly, as Gordons dae a
Oh, Gin I were where the Gadie Rins               ‘I thank you Lady Jean; I am promised awa’
Oh, gin I were where the Gadie rins,              [repeat]
Where the Gadie rins, where the Gadie rins;



                                              7
She’s called her father’s chaplain, a man of great        Tho’ I am your wedded wife,
skill                                                     Yet I am not your slave, sir.’
He’s written a letter, and indited it weel [repeat]
                                                          ‘One of two must still obey,
The first word that Glenlogie read, loud, loud            Nancy, Nancy!
laughed he                                                Is it Man or Woman, say,
The next word that Glenlogie read, the tear blinded       My spouse Nancy?’
his ee [repeat]
                                                          ‘If ‘tis still the lordly word,
‘Go saddle my black horse and bring him to the            Service and obedience,
green’                                                    I’ll desert my sov’reign lord,
But e’re they had it ready, he was twal mile on his       And so goodbye, allegiance!’
lean [repeat]
                                                          ‘Sad will I be so bereft,
Pale and wan was she when Glenlogie gaed ben              Nancy, Nancy!
But reid and rosy grew she, when she saw it was           Yet I’ll try to mak’ a shift,
him                                                       My spouse Nancy!’

(As sung by Angus Ross (b. Dundee, 1928) on 12
May 2007                                                  ‘My poor heart, then brak it must,
Corrected: 4 Sept. 2007                                   My last hour I’m near it:
Vancouver, BC                                             And when you lay me in the dust,
29 April 2009                                             Think, think how will you bear it!’

Good Night and joy be wi’ you a’                          ‘I will hope and trust in Heaven,
This night is my departing night,                         Nancy, Nancy!
The morn’s the day I maun awa’;                           Strength to bear it will be given,
There’s nae a friend or fae o’ mine,                      My spouse Nancy.’
But wishes that I were awa;
What I had done for lack o’ wit                           ‘Well, sir, from the silent dead,
I never never can reca’;                                  Still I’ll try to daunt you:
I trust ye’re a’ my friends as yet,                       Ever round your midnight bed
Good night and joy be wi’ ye a’.                          Horrid sprites shall haunt you!’

                                                          ‘I’ll wed another like my dear,
                                                          Nancy, Nancy!
Hey, ca’ thro’                                            Then all Hell will fly for fear,
Up wi’ the carls o’ Dysart,                               My spouse Nancy!’
And the lads o’ Buckhaven,
And the kimmers o’ Largo,
And the lasses o’ Leven.
  Hey, ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’,                              If you will mairry me
  For we hae muckle ado.                                  Oh, I’ll gie ye a packet o’ pins,
                                                          For that’s the way that love begins,
We hae tales to tell,                                     If ye will mairry, airry-airry-airry,
An’ we hae sangs to sing;                                 Ye will mairry me.
We hae pennies tae spend,
An’ we hae pints to bring.                                Oh, I’ll nae tak’ yer packet o’ pins,
  Hey, ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’, etc.                         That’s nae the way that love begins,
                                                          An’ I’ll nae mairry, airry-airry-airry,
We’ll live a’ our days,                                   I’ll nae mairry you.
And them that comes ahin,
Let them dae the like,                                    Oh, I’ll gie ye a dress o’ red,
An’ spend the gear they win.                              Stitched a’ roon wi’ a silver threid,
   Hey, ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’, etc                         If ye will mairry, airry-airry-airry,
                                                          Ye will mairry me.

                                                          Oh I’ll nae tak’ your dress o’ red,
Husband husband cease your strife                         Stitched a’ roon wi’ a silver threid,
‘Husband, husband, cease your strife,                     An’ I’ll nae mairry, airry-airry-airry,
Nor longer idly rave, sir!                                I’ll nae mairry you.



                                                      8
                                                            We were wakened by the turnkey, who unto us did
Oh I’ll gie ye a silver spoon,                              say:
Tae feed the bairn in the aifternoon,                       ‘Arise, ye hapless convicts, arise ye, ane and a’,
If ye will mairry, airry-airry-airry,                       This is the day ye are to stray from Caledonia.’
Ye will mairry me.
                                                            We a’ arose, put on our clothes, our hairts were fu’
Oh I’ll nae tak’ yer silver spoon,                          o’ grief,
Tae feed the bairn in the aifternoon,                       Our friends wha stood around the coach, could
An’ I’ll nae mairry, airry-airry-airry,                     grant us no relief,
I’ll nae mairry you.                                        Our parents, wives and sweethearts dear, their
                                                            hairts were broke in twa,
Oh I’ll gie ye the keys o’ the chest,                       To see us leave the bonnie braes o’ Caledonia.
And a’ the money that I possess,
If ye will mairry, airry-airry-airry,                       Fareweel, my aged mither, I’m vexed for what I’ve
Ye will mairry me.                                          done,
                                                            I hope none will cast up to you the race that I have
Oh I will tak the keys o’ the chest,                        run;
And a’ the money that ye posses,                            I hope God will protect you when I am far awa’,
And I will mairry, airry-airry-airry,                       Far frae the bonnie hills and dales o’ Caledonia.
I will mairry you.
                                                            Fareweel, my honest father, ye were the best o’
Ha, ha, ha, yer helluva funny,                              men,
Ye dinna love me but ye love my money,                      And likewise my ain sweetheart, it’s Catherine is
An’ I’ll nae mairry, airry-airry-airry,                     her name,
I’ll nae mairry you.                                        Nae mair we’ll walk by Clyde’s clear stream or by
                                                            the Broomielaw,
I Know Where I’m Goin’                                      For I must leave the hills and dales o’ Caledonia.
I know where I’m goin’ and I know who’s goin’
with me;                                                    My name is Jamie Raeburn, in Glasgow I was born,
I know who I love and my dear knows who I'll                My place and habitation I’m forced to leave with
marry.                                                      scorn;
                                                            Frae my place and habitation I now must gang
I have stockings of silk and shoes of bright green          awa’,
leather,                                                    Far frae the bonnie hills and dales o’ Caledonia.
Combs to buckle my hair and a ring for every
finger.
                                                            Jenny’s Bawbee
O, feather beds are soft and painted rooms are              I met four chaps yon birks amang,
bonnie,                                                     Wi’ hingin’ lugs and faces lang,
But I would give them all for my handsome                   I speered at neighbour Bauldy Strang,
winsome Johnny.                                             O what could it be?
                                                            Quo’ he, ‘each whey-faced pawky chiel,
Some say that he’s black, but I say that he's bonnie;       Thought he was clever as the deil,
Fairest of them all is my handsome winsome                  Whan he cam here awa to steal
Johnny.                                                              Jenny’s Bawbee.

I know where I’m goin' and I know who’s goin’               The first, a captain to his trade,
with me,                                                    Wi’ skull ill-lined, and back weel clad,
I know who I love and my dear knows who I’ll                Marched round the barn and by the shed,
marry.                                                      And papped on his knee;
                                                            Quo’ he, ‘my goddess, nymph, and queen,
                                                            Your beauty’s dazzled baith my een.
Jamie Raeburn’s Farewell                                    But deil a beauty had he seen
My name is Jamie Raeburn, in Glasgow I was born,                      But Jenny’s Bawbee.
My place and habitation I’m forced to leave with
scorn;                                                      A Norlan laird neist trotted up,
Frae my place and habitation I now must gang awa’           Wi’ bawsen’d nag and siller whup,
Far frae the bonnie hills and dales o’ Caledonia.           Cries, ‘there’s my beast lad, haud the grup,
                                                            Or tie him to a tree,—
It was early one morning just at the break of day,          What’s gowd to me? I’ve walth o’ lan’,



                                                        9
Bestow on ane o’ worth your han’,                      Come, let us try baith fire and sword,
He thought to pay what he was awn                      And dinna flee like a frichted bird,
        Wi’ Jenny’s Bawbee.                            That’s chased frae its nest I’ the morning.’
                                                                Hey! Johnny Cope, etc.
A Lawyer neist wi’ blethering gab,
Wi’ speeches wove like ony wab,
In ilk ane’s corn he took a dab,
And a’ for a fee;                                      When Johnny Cope he heard o’ this,
Accounts he ow’d through a’ the town,                  He thocht it wadna be amiss,
But tradesmen’s tongues nae mair could drown,          Tae hae a horse in readiness,
Haith now he thought to clout his gown                 For tae flee awa in the morning.
          Wi’ Jenny’s Bawbee.                                    Hey! Johnny Cope, etc.

Then spruce, frae ban-boxes and tubs,                  Fye now, Johnny, get up an’ rin,
The fop came neist, but life has rubs;                 The Highland bagpipes mak’ a din,
Foul were the roads, and fu’ the dubs,                 It’s best tae sleep in a hale skin,
Ah! wae’s me;                                          For it will be a bluidie morning.
A’ clatty, squintin’ though a glass,                              Hey! Johnny Cope, etc.
He girned ‘I’ faith, a bonny lass,’
He thought to win wi’ front o’ brass                   When Johnny Cope tae Dunbar cam,
         Jenny’s Bawbee.                               They speired at him, ‘Whaur’s a’ your men?’
                                                       ‘The de’il confound me gin I ken,
She bade the Laird gang kame his wig,                  For I left them a’ in the morning.’
The Sodger no to strut sae big,                                  Hey! Johnny Cope, etc.
The lawyer no to be a prig;
The Fool cried ‘Tee-hee.                               Now Johnny, troth ye werena blate,
I kent that I could never fail,’                       Tae leave your men in sic a strait,
She prin’d the dishclout till his tail,                And come wi’ news o’ your ain defeat,
And cool’d him wi’ a water pail,                       Sae early in the morning.
          And kept her Bawbee.                                  Hey! Johnny Cope, etc.

Then Johnny came, a lad o’ sense,                      ‘I’ faith,’ quo Johnny, ‘I got sic flegs
Although he had na mony pence,                         Wi’ their claymores an’ philabegs,
He took young Jenny to the spence,                     Gin I face them again, de’il brak my legs,
Wi’ her to crack a-wee;                                So I wish you a’ good morning.’
Now Johnny was a clever chiel,                                    Hey! Johnny Cope, etc.
And there his suit he pressed sae weel,
That Jenny’s heart grew saft as jeel,
         And she birl’d her bawbee.                    Logie o’ Buchan
                                                       Oh, Logie o’ Buchan, O Logie the laird,
                                                       They hae taen awa’ Jamie, that delved in the yaird,
Johnny Cope                                            Wha played on the pipe, and the viol sae sma’,
Cope sent a challenge frae Dunbar,                     They hae taen awa’ Jamie, the flower o’ them a.
Sayin ‘Charlie meet me an’ ye daur;                    He said ‘Think na lang lassie, tho’ I gang awa’,
An’ I’ll learn ye the art o’ war,                      An’ I’ll come an see ye in spite o’ them a’.’
If ye’ll meet me in the morning.’
                                                       Tho’ Sandy has ousen, an’ siller, an’ kye,
Hey! Johnny Cope, are ye a-waukin’ yet?                A house and a haudin’, an’ a’ things forbye;
Or are your drums a-beating yet?                       But I wad hae Jamie wi’s bonnet in’s hand,
If ye were waukin’ I wad wait,                         Afore I’d hae Sandy wi’ houses and land.
Tae gang tae the coals in the morning.                          O think na lang, etc.

When Charlie looked the letter upon,                   My daddie was sulkie, my minnie was sour,
He drew his sword the scabbard from                    They gloom’d on my Jamie because he was poor;
‘Come, follow me my merry men,                         But daddie and minnie altho’ that they be,
And we’ll meet Johnny Cope in the morning.’            They’re nane o’ them a’ like my Jamie to me.
        Hey! Johnny Cope, are ye a-waukin’ yet?                O think na lang, etc.
etc.
                                                       I sit on my sunkie and spin at my wheel,
‘Now Johnny be as good as your word,                   An’ sing o’ my Jamie wha loes me sae weel;



                                                  10
He took a white saxpence and brak it in twa,          Richt scornfully she answer’d him,
An’ gae me the hauf o’t when he gaed awa’.            ‘Begone, ye hallanshaker—
        O think na lang, etc.                         Jog on your gate, you bladderskate,
                                                      My name is Maggie Lauder.’

McPherson’s Rant                                      ‘Maggie,’ quo’ he, ‘and by my bags,
Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strang,                I’m fidgin’ fain to see ye;
Farewell, farewell to thee;                           Sit doun by me, my bonnie bird
McPherson's life will no be long                      In troth I wadna steer thee;
On yonder gallows tree                                For I’m a piper to my trade,
                                                      My name is Rab the Ranter;
Sae rantin’ly, sae wantonly                           The lasses loup as they were daft,
And sae dauntin’ly gaed he’                           When I blaw up my chanter.’
He played a tune and he danced it roon,
Below the gallows tree                                ‘Piper,’ quo’ Meg, ‘hae ye your bags,
                                                      And is your drone in order ?
It was by a woman’s treacherous hand                  If ye be Rob, I’ve heard o’ you ;
That I was condemned tae dee,                         Ye live upo’ the Border?
Upon a ledge at a window she stood,                   The lasses a’, baith far and near,
And a blanket she threw ower me.                      Hae heard o’ Rab the Ranter;
         Sae rantin’ly, etc.                          I’ll shake my foot wi, richt gude will,
                                                      Gif ye’ll blaw up your chanter.’
The Laird o’ Grant that Hieland saunt,
That first laid hands on me.                          Then to his bags he flew wi’ speed,
He pleads the cause o’ Peter Broon,                   About the drone he twisted,
Tae let MacPherson dee.                               Meg up and wallop’d ower the green,
          Sae rantin’ly, etc.                         For brawly could she frisk it;
                                                      ‘Weel done!’ quo’ he, ‘play up!’ quo’ she,
Untie these bands frae off my hands                   ‘Weel bobb’d!’ quo’ Rab the Ranter;
And gie to me my sword,                               ‘It’s worth my while to play, indeed,
An’ there’s nae a man in a’ Scotland                  When I hae sic a dancer!’
But I’ll brave him at a word.
          Sae rantin’ly, etc.                         ‘Weel hae ye play’d your part’ quo’ Meg,
                                                      Your cheeks are like the crimson!
There’s some come here for to see me hing,            There’s nane in Scotland play’d sae weel,
And some to buy my fiddle;                            Sin’ we lost Habbie Simpson.
But before that I do part wi’ her                     I’ve lived in Fife, baith maid and wife,
I’ll break her through the middle                     This ten years and a quarter;
          Sae rantin’ly, etc.                         Gin ye should come to Anster Fair,
                                                      Spier ye for Maggie Lauder!’
He took his fiddle in baith o’ his hands
And he broke it o’er a stane;                         Mairi’s Wedding
Sayin’: ‘There’s nae a ane shall play on thee         Step we gaily on we go
When I am dead and gane.’                             Heel for heel and toe for toe,
         Sae rantin’ly, etc.                          Arm in arm and row on row
                                                      All for Mairi’s wedding.
The reprieve was comin’ o’er the Brig of Banff
To set McPherson free;                                Red her cheeks as rowans are,
But they put the clock a quarter before               Bright her eye as any star;
And they hanged him fae the tree                      Fairest o’ them a’ by far
         Sae rantin’ly, etc.                          Is our darling Mairi.

                                                      Plenty herring, plenty meal,
                                                      Plenty peat to fill her creel
                                                      Plenty bonny bairns as weel;
Maggie Lauder                                         That’s the toast for Mairi.
Wha wadna be in love
Wi’ bonnie Maggie Lauder ?
A piper met her gaun to Fife,                         Mary Hamilton
And spier’d at what they ca’d her:
                                                      Word is to the kitchen gone


                                                 11
And word is to the hall,
And word is up to Madam the Queen                      Last night there were four Maries,
And that’s the worst of all,                           Tonight there'll be but three,
That Mary Hamilton’s born a babe to the highest        There was Mary Beaton, and Mary Seaton,
Stuart of all’                                         And Mary Carmichael, and me.’

‘Arise, arise, Mary Hamilton,
Arise and tell to me,                                  M’Ginty’s Meal and Ale
What thou hast done with thy wee babe                  This is nae a sang o’ love, na’, nor yet a sang o’
I saw and heard weep by thee?’                         money,
                                                       Faith it’s naethin’ verra peetifu’, it’s naethin’ verra
‘I put him in a tiny boat,                             funny;
And cast him out to sea,                               But there’s Hielan’ Scotch, an’ Lowland Scotch,
That he might sink or he might swim,                   Butter Scotch an’ honey.
But he’d never come back to me.’                       If there’s neen o’ them for a’ there’s a mixture o’
                                                       the three.
‘Arise, arise, Mary Hamilton,                          An’ there’s nae a word o’ beef, brose, sowens,
Arise and come with me;                                sauty bannocks, na’,
There is a wedding in Glasgow town                     Nor pancakes, pace eggs for them wi’ dainty
This night we’ll go and see.’                          stammicks;
                                                       But it’s a’ aboot a meal and ale that happened at
She put not on her robes of black,                     Balmannocks,
Nor yet her robes of brown,                            McGinty’s meal and ale, whaur the pig gaed on the
But she put on the robes of white,                     spree.
To ride into Glasgow town.
                                                          They were howlin’ in the kitchen like a caravan
And as she rode into Glasgow town,                     o Tinkies, aye,
The city for to see,                                      And some were playing ping-pong and tiddely-
The bailie’s wife and the provost’s wife               widdely-winkies;
Cried, ‘Ach, and alas for thee.’                          For up the howe an’ doon the howe ye niver saw
                                                       such jinkies,
‘Ah, you need not weep for me,’ she cried                 As McGinty’s meal and ale, whaur the pig gaed
‘You need not weep for me;                             on the spree.
For had I not slain my own wee babe
This death I would not dee.’                           Noo McGinty’s pig had broken lowse, an’ wannert
                                                       tae the lobby,
‘Ah, little did my mother think                        Far he opened shived the pantry door, an’ cam’
When first she cradled me,                             upon the toddy;
The lands I was to travel in                           And he took kindly tae the stuff like ony human
And the death I was to dee.’                           body,
                                                       At McGinty’s meal and ale whaur the pig gaed on
Then by and come the King himself,                     the spree
Looked up with a pitiful eye,                          Miss McGinty she ran but the hoose, the wey was
Come down, come down, Mary Hamilton,                   dark an’ crookit,
Tonight you’ll dine with me.’                          She gaed heelster gowdie ower the pig, for it she
                                                       never lookit;
‘Ah, hold your tongue, my sovereign liege,             And she lat oot a skirl that wad hae paralysed a
And let your folly be;                                 teuchit,
For if you’d a mind to save my life                    At McGinty’s meal and ale whaur the pig gaed on
You’d never have shamed me here.’                      the spree.

‘Cast off, cast off my gown,’ she cried,               Johnnie Murphy he ran efter her, and ower the pig
‘But let my petticoat be,                              was leapin’
And tie a napkin ’round my face;                       Fan he trampit on a ashet that was sittin’ fu o’
The gallows I would not see.’                          dreepin’
                                                       An’ he fell doon and peel’t his croon, an’ couldna
‘Last night I washed the Queen’s feet,                 haud fae greetin’
And put the gold on her hair,                          At McGinty’s meal and ale whaur the pig gaed on
And the only reward I find for this,                   the spree.
Is the gallows to be my share.



                                                  12
An’ the pantry shelf cam’ ricklin’ doon and he was
lyin’ kirnin’
Amang saft soap, pease meal, corn floor and                   Mingulay Boat Song
yirnin’                                                       Hill you ho, boys, let her go, boys,
Like a golloch amang treacle but McGinty’s wife               Heave her head round into the weather;
was girnin’                                                   Hill you ho, boys, let her go, boys,
At the soss upon her pantry fleer and wadna’ lat              Sailing homeward to Mingulay
him be.
    They were howlin’ in the kitchen, etc.                    What care we how white the Minch is.
                                                              What care we for the wind and weather?
Syne they a’ ran skirlin’ tae the door but fan that it        For we know that every inch is
was tuggit,                                                   Sailing closer to Mingulay.
For aye it held the fester, aye the mair they ruggit;
Till McGinty roared tae bring an axe, he wadna be             Wives are waiting at the pierhead,
humbuggit,                                                    Looking seaward from the heather.
Na’ nor lockit in his ain hoose, and that he’d let            Pull her round, boys, and we’ll anchor
them see.                                                     E’er the sun sets on Mingulay.
Sae the wife cam’ trailin’ wi’ an axe, an’ through
the bar was hacket,
And open flew the door at eence, sae ticht as they            Mormond Braes
were packet,                                                  As I cam’ in by Strichen toon
And a’ the crew cam’ rummlin’ oot like tatties fae a          I heard a fair maid mournin’;
bucket,                                                       She was makin’ sair complaint
At McGinty’s meal and ale whaur the pig gaed on               For her true love ne’er returnin’.
the spree.
                                                                 It’s fare ye weel ye Mormond Braes
They had spurtles, they had tattie chappers, faith               Whaur aftimes I’ve been cheery;
they werena jokin’                                               Fare ye weel ye Mormond Braes
And they swore they’d gar the pig claw whaur he                  For it’s there I lost my dearie.
was never yokin’
But by this time the lad was fou’ and didna’ care a           There’s mony a mare that’s snapper’d and fa’n
dockin’                                                       An’ risen again fu’ rarely’;
At McGinty’s meal and ale whaur the pig went on               Mony a lass has lost her lad
the spree.                                                    And gotten anither richt early.
Oh! There’s eelie pigs an’ jeelie pigs, an’ pigs for            It’s fare ye weel ye Mormond Braes, etc.
haudin’ butter,
Aye but this pig was dottin’ fou’ and rowin’ in the           So I’ll pit on my goun o’ green
gutter,                                                       It’s a forsaken token;
Till McGinty and his foreman trailed him oot upon             An’ that’ll lat the young men ken
a shutter,                                                    That the bands o’ love are broken.
At McGinty’s meal and ale whaur the pig gaed on                   It’s fare ye weel ye Mormond Braes, etc.
the spree.
                                                              An’ I’ll gang doon tae Strichen toon
Miss McGinty took the thing tae heart an’ hidit in            Where I was bred and born;
her closet,                                                   And I will court anither lad
An’ they rubbit Johnnie Murphy’s heid wi’                     An’ I’ll mairry him the morn.
turpentine an’ rosit;                                           It’s fare ye weel ye Mormond Braes, etc.
Syne they harl’t him wi’ meal and ale, until ye wad
suposit
He had sleepit in a mason’s trough and risen tae the
spree.
                                                              No More Fish, No Fishermen (c) 1996 I.
Oh! it’s weary on the barley bree, an’ weary on the           Sheldon Posen
weather,                                                      Out along the harbour reach
For it’s kirnin’ aboot ’mang dubs an drink, they              Boats stand dried up on the beach
gang na’ weel thegither;                                      Ghost-like in the early dawn
But there’s little doot McGinty’s pig is wishin’ for          Empty, now the fish are gone.
anither                                                       What will become of people now?
At McGinty’s meal and ale whaur the pig gaed on               Try to build a life somehow
the spree.                                                    Hard, hard times are back again
    They were howlin’ in the kitchen, etc.                    No more fish, no fishermen.



                                                         13
                                                             You must take it in coin which the country affords,
No more shoppers in the stores                               Lillibulero, bullen a la;
Since the fish plant closed its doors                        Instead of broad pieces he pays with broad swords,
Men who walked a trawler's decks                             Lillibulero, bullen a la.
Now line up for welfare cheques.                                To arms, to arms! etc.
There's big ‘For Sale’ signs everywhere
Pockets empty, cupboards bare
See it on the news at ten                                    A Pair o’ Nicky Tams
No more fish, no fishermen.                                  Fan I was only ten year auld, I left the pairish
                                                             sqweel;
Once from Ship Cove to Cape Race                             My faither fee’d me till the Mains tae chaw his
Port aux Basques to Harbour Grace                            milk and meal;
Newfoundlanders fished for cod                               I first pit on my nairra breeks tae hap my spinnle
Owing merchants, trusting God.                               trams,
They filled their dories twice a day                         Syne buckled roon my knappin’ knees, a pair o’
They fished their poor sweet lives away                      Nicky Tams.
They could not imagine then
No more fish, no fishermen.                                  It’s first I gaed for baillie loon and syne I gaed on
                                                             for third,
Back before the Second War                                   An’ syne, of course, I had tae get the horsemans’
We could catch our fish inshore                              grip an’ wird;
Boats were small and gear was rough                          A loaf o’ breid tae be my piece an’ a bottle for
We caught fish, but left enough.                             drinkin’ drams,
And now there's no more fish because                         Bit ye canna gyang thro’ the caffhouse door
The trawler fleets took all there was                        without yer Nicky Tams.
We could see it coming then
No more fish, no fishermen.                                  The fairmer I am wi’ eynoo he’s wealthy, bit he’s
                                                             mean,
Farewell now to stage and flake                              Though corn’s cheap, his horse is thin, his harness
Get out for the children's sake                              fairly deen;
Leave all friends and kin behind                             He gars us load oor cairts owre fu’, his conscience
Take whatever job you find.                                  has nae qualms,
There’s some that say things aren't so black                 Bit fan briest-straps brak there’s naething like a
They say the fish will all come back                         pair o’ Nicky Tams.
Who’ll be here to catch them then?
No more fish, no fishermen.
                                                             I’m coortin’ Bonnie Annie noo, Rob Tamson’s
Oh brother Sandy, hear ye the news?                          kitchie deem;
Oh, brother Sandy, hear ye the news?                         She is five-and-forty an’ I’m but seventeen’
Lillibulero, bullen a la;                                    She clorts a muckle piece tae me, wi’ different
An army’s just coming without any shoes,
                                                             kinds o’ jam,
Lillibulero, bullen a la.
                                                             An’ tells me ilka nicht that she admires my Nicky
                                                             Tams.
   To arms, to arms! Brave boys to arms!
   A true British cause for your courage doth call;
   Court, Country and City against a banditti,               I startit oot, ae Sunday, tae the kirkie for tae gyang;
   Lillibulero, bullen a la.                                 My collar it wis unco ticht, my breeks wis neen
                                                             owre lang;
The Pope sends us over a bonny young Lad,                    I had my Bible in my pooch, likewise my Book o’
Lillibulero, bullen a la;                                    Psalms,
Who, to court British favour, wears a Highland               Fan Annie roared, ‘Ye muckle gype, tak’ aff yer
plad,                                                        Nicky Tams!’
Lillibulero, bullen a la.
   To arms, to arms! etc.                                    Though unco sweir, I took them aff, the lassie for
                                                             tae please;
If this shall surprise you there’s news stranger yet;        But aye my breeks they lirkit up, a’ roon aboot my
Lillibulero, bullen a la;                                    knees;
He brings Highland money to pay British debt,                A muckle wasp flew up my leg in the middle o’ the
Lillibulero, bullen a la.                                    Psalms,
    To arms, to arms! etc.                                   Oh niver again will I gang tae the kirk without my
                                                             Nicky Tams.



                                                        14
I’ve aften thocht I’d like tae be a bobby on the           Tae grant three wishes they’ve sent me here’.
Force;                                                       An’ I hope so, an’ I say so,
Or maybe I’ll get on the cars, an’ drive a pair o’           ‘Tae grant three wishes they’ve sent me here’;
horse;                                                       Puir auld woman.
Bit fativer it’s my lot tae be, the bobbies or the
trams,                                                     The auld woman looked intae her empty purse,
I’ll ne’er forget the happy days I wore my Nicky           ‘I could always use some cash, of course’;
Tams.                                                      The fairy waved her want aroond,
                                                           Lyin’ on the flair was a thoosand pound.
                                                               An’ I hope so, an’ I say so,
                                                               The fairy waved her wand aroond;
Pretty Flowers                                                 Puir auld woman.
–Abroad for pleasure as I was a walking,
All upon a summer summer’s evening clear,                  ‘Well, a lovely face and a figure divine,
(Chorus) Abroad for pleasure as I was a-walking,           For just one night I wish they were mine;’
All upon a summer summer’s evening clear:                  The fairy said ‘Ah’ll have a go’,
–’Twas there I beheld a most beautiful damsel,             Made her look like Brigitte Bardot.
Lamenting for her shepherd dear,                              An’ I hope so, an’ I say so,
(Chorus) ‘Twas there I beheld a most beautiful                The fairy said ‘Ah’ll have a go’,
damsel,                                                       Puir auld woman.
Lamenting for her shepherd dear,
Lamenting for her shepherd dear.                           Now this lovely girl by the fire she sat,
                                                           Turned her attention tae her auld tom cat;
–The dearest ev’ning that e’er I beheld thee,              ‘He’s my only love, so here’s my plan—
Was ever ever ever with the lad I adore;                   Tonight make him a handsome man.’
(Chorus) The dearest ev’ning that e’er I beheld              An’ I hope so, an’ I say so,
thee,                                                        ‘He’s my only love so here’s my plan;’
Was ever ever ever with the lad I adore;                     Puir auld woman.
–Wilt thou go fight yon French and Spaniards?
Wilt thou leave me thus, my dear?                          This handsome man at length drew near,
(Chorus) Wilt thou go fight yon French and                 He whispered softly in her ear:
Spaniards?                                                 ‘The night is young, but you’ll regret
Wilt thou leave me thus, my dear?                          The day you sent me to the vet’.
Wilt thou leave me thus, my dear?                             An’ I hope so, and I say so,
                                                              ‘The night is young, but you’ll regret’,
–No more to yon green banks will I take thee,                 Puir auld woman.
With pleasure for to rest thyself and view the
lambs;
(Chorus) No more to yon green banks will I take
thee,
                                                           Roll Alabama Roll
With pleasure for to rest thyself and view the             When the Alabama’s keel was laid,
lambs;                                                        Roll, Alabama, Roll,
–But I will take thee to yon green gardens,                It was laid in the yards of Jonathan Laird,
Where those pretty flowers grow;                              O roll, Alabama, roll.
(Chorus) But I will take thee to yon green gardens,
Where those pretty flowers grow:                           It was laid in the yards of Jonathan Laird,
Where those pretty pretty flowers grow.                    It was laid in the town of Birkenhead,

                                                           Down Mersey way she sailed then,
Puir auld woman                                            Liverpool fitted her with guns and men.
In an attic room in Dundee toon,
A puir auld woman spread the tale aroon’;                  From the western isles she sailed forth
She lived fifty years in a wee top flat,                   To destroy the commerce of the North;
Nae ither company but her auld tom cat.
   An’ I hope so, an’ I say so,                            To fight the North, Semmes did employ
   Fifty years in a wee top flat;                          Any method to kill and destroy.
   Puir auld woman.
                                                           Into Cherbourg port she sailed one day
One night by the fire she sat gey glum,                    To take the count of her prize money
When what dae ye think cam’ doon her lum?
‘Ah’m yer fairy godmither, have nae fear,                  And many a seaman saw his doom



                                                      15
When Yankee Kearsage hove into view.                  Bye bye my Ro-se-an-na
                                                      I thought I heard my baby say
A shot from the forward pivot that day                I won’t be home tomorrow.
Blew the Alabama’s stern away.
                                                      The steamboat’s comin’ round the bend.
Off the three-mile limit in ’64,                      Bye bye my Ro-se-an-na
The Alabama was seen no more.                         It’s loaded down with harvest men,
                                                      I won’t be home tomorrow.

Rolling Home                                          I’m goin’ away, but not to stay
Call all hands to man the capstan,                    Bye bye my Ro-se-an-na
See the cable running clear,                          I’m goin’ away, but not to stay
Heave around and with the wheel boys,                 But I won’t be home tomorrow.
For our homeland we will steer.

         Rolling home, rolling home,                  Strangest Dream
         Rolling home across the sea,                 Last night I had the strangest dream
         Rolling home to Caledonia,                   I ever dreamed before
         Rolling home dear land to thee.              I dreamed the world had all agreed
                                                      To put an end to war.
Fare ye well ye Spanish ladies,                       I dreamed I saw a mighty room
We must bid you all adieu,                            The room was filled with men [and women]
Happy times we’ve had together,                       And the paper they were signing said
Happy times we spent with you.                        They’d never fight again.
   Rolling home, rolling home, etc.
                                                      And when the paper was all signed
Round the horn one frosty morning,                    And a million copies made
And our sails were filled with snow,                  They all joined hands and bowed their heads
You could hear the shellbacks calling,                And grateful prayers were prayed.
Heave around and let her go.                          And the people in the streets below
  Rolling home, rolling home, etc.                    Were dancing round and round
                                                      While guns and swords and uniforms
Now the wake we leave behind us,                      Lay scattered on the ground.
Seems to know the way we go,
There’s a hearty welcome waiting,                     Last night I had the strangest dream
In the land that we all know.                         I ever dreamed before
    Rolling home, rolling home, etc.                  I dreamed the world had all agreed
                                                      To put an end to war.
Roseanna
Oh, Ro-se-anne, sweet Ro-se-anne,
Bye bye my Ro-se-an-na                                Surrounded By Water (Dominic Behan)
I’m goin’ away, but not to stay,                      They say that the lakes of Killarney are fair,
And I won’t be home tomorrow.                         That no stream like the Liffey can ever compare;
                                                      If it’s water you want you'll find nothing more rare
Bye bye, Bye bye, Bye bye, Bye bye,                   Than the stuff they make down by the ocean.
Bye bye my Ro-se-an-na
Bye bye, Bye bye, Bye bye, Bye bye,                      The sea, oh the sea is the gradh geal mo croide,
And I won’t be home tomorrow.                            Long may it stay between England and me;
                                                         It’s a sure guarantee that some hour we’ll be
I thought I heard the captain say,                    free
Bye bye my Ro-se-an-na                                   Oh! thank God we’re surrounded by water.
Don’t you want to go home on your next payday?
And I won’t be home tomorrow.                         Tom Moore made his waters meet fame and
                                                      renown,
The steamboat’s comin’ round the bend.                A great lover of anything dressed in a crown;
Bye bye my Ro-se-an-na                                In brandy the bandy old Saxon he’d drown,
A-loaded down with fishermen,                         But throw ne’er a one into the ocean.
And I won’t be home tomorrow.
                                                      The Scots have their whisky, the Welsh have their
Sweet, Ro-se-anne, my darlin’ child                   speech;


                                                 16
And their poets are paid about ten pence a week,        A gown o’ silk, a gown o’ silk;
Provided no hard words on England they speak,           Ye shall get a gown o’ silk
Oh Lord! What a price for devotion!                     And coat o’ calimankie.

                                                        Na, kind sir, I dare nae gang
The Barnyards o’ Delgaty                                I dare nae gang, I dare nae gang;
As I gaed doon by Turra Market,                         Na, kind sir, I dare nae gang
Turra Market for tae fee;                               For my mither wad be angry.
I fell in wi’ a farmer chiel,
Fae the Barnyards o’ Delgaty.                           Sair, sair wad she flyte,
                                                        Wad she flyte, wad she flyte;
   Lintin addie, toorin addie,                          Sair, sair wad she flyte
   Lintin addie toorin ay;                              And sair wad she ban me.
   Lintin owrin’ lowrin’ lowrin’,
   The barnyards o' Delgaty.
                                                        The Bleacher Lassie o’ Kelvinhaugh
He promised me the ae best pair                         As I walked out on a simmer's evenin’,
That iver I set my een upon;                            A-walkin’ doun by the Broomielaw;
But when I gat tae the barnyards,                       It wis there I spied a fair young lassie
There was naethin’ there but skin and bone.             Wi’ cherrie cheeks an a skin like snaw.
  Lintin addie, toorin addie, etc.
                                                        Says I, ‘My lassie, is it you that wanders
The auld black horse sat on her rump,                   Oot a’ alane by the Broomielaw?’
The auld grey mare sat on her wime;                     ‘O, indeed, kind sir, it’s the truth I’ll tell ye
And for all that I wad whup an’ crack,                  I’m the bleacher lassie o’ Kelvinhaugh.’
They wouldna rise at yokin’ time.
  Lintin addie, toorin addie, etc.                      ‘O lassie, lassie, will ye gang wi’ me
                                                        An’ I’ll claith ye up a’ in fine satins braw?’
When I gang doon tae Kirk on Sunday,
                                                        ‘O indeed, kind sir, I maun plainly tell ye
Mony’s the bonny lass I see;
                                                        I’ve a lad o’ my ain an he’s far awa’.’
Sittin’ by her father’s side,
And winkin’ o’er the pews at me.
    Lintin addie, toorin addie, etc.                    ‘It’s seven lang years since I lo’oed a sailor
                                                        It’s seven lang years sin’ he’s gaed awa;
Oh I can drink and nae be drunken,                      But anither twice seven I wad wait upon him
I can fecht an’ nae be slain;                           An’ I’ll bleach my claes here in Kelvinhaugh.’
I can lie wi’ another man’s lass
And still be welcome tae my ain.                        ‘O lassie, lassie, ye hae been faithfu’,
    Lintin addie, toorin addie, etc.                    An’ thocht on me whan that I was awa’;
                                                        Twa herts will surely be rewardit
Lang Jean Scott she maks my bed,                        We’ll pairt nae mair here on Kelvinhaugh.’
Ye’ll see the marks upon my shins;
For she’s the coorse ill-trickit jaud                   It’s noo this couple, they hae got mairriet
That fills my bed wi’ prickly whins.                    An’ they keep an alehoose atween them twa;
   Lintin addie, toorin addie, etc.                     An the sailor laddies they a’ gang drinkin’
                                                        At the bleacher lassie’s o’ Kelvinhaugh.
Noo my caun’le is brunt oot,
Its lowe is fairly o the wane;
Sae fare ye weel ye Barnyards
                                                        The Bonnie Earl of Moray
Ye’ll niver catch me here again.
                                                        Ye Hielands an’ ye Lowlands
    Lintin addie, toorin addie, etc.
                                                        O, whaur hae ye been?
                                                        They hae slain the Earl o’ Moray
                                                        And laid him on the green;
Birks o’ Abergeldie                                     He was a braw gallant
Bonnie lassie, will ye go,                              And he rode at the ring,
Will ye go, will ye go;                                 An’ the bonnie Earl of Moray
Bonnie lassie, will ye go                               O, he micht hae been the king.
To the birks o’ Abergeldie?                             O, lang may his lady
                                                        Look frae the castle Doune
An’ ye shall get a gown o’ silk,


                                                   17
Ere she see the Earl o’ Moray                               Green grow the birks on bonnie Ythanside,
Come soundin’ through the toun.                             And low lie the lowlands of Fyvie-o;
                                                            The captain's name was Ned and he died for a
Now wae be to thee, Huntly                                  maid,
And wherefore did ye sae?                                   He died for the bonny lass of Fyvie-o.
I bade you bring him wi’ you
But forbade ye him to slay.
He was a braw gallant                                       The Broom o’ the Cowdenknowes
And he play’d at the ba’,                                   O the broom, the bonnie bonnie broom,
An’ the Bonnie Earl o’ Moray                                The broom o’ the Cowdenknowes;
Was the flower amang them a’.                               And aye sae sweet the bonnie lassie sang,
Lang may his lady                                           I’ the ewe bucht milking her yowes, her yowes
Look frae the Castle Doune                                  I' the ewe bucht milking her yowes.
Ere she see the Earl o’ Moray
Come soundin’ through the toun.                             The lassie sang ower a’ the hills,
                                                            And sae sweet a voice had she,
Bonnie Lass of Fyvie                                        She caught the ear o’ a gentleman,
There once was a troop of Irish dragoons                    As he cam’ ridin’ by, by,
Come marching down through Fyvie-o;                         As he cam’ ridin’ by.
And the captain fell in love with a very bonnie lass
And her name it was called was pretty Peggy-o.              He’s ta’en his leave o’ a’ his men,
                                                            And doon to the bucht rode he,
There’s mony a bonnie lass in the howe o’                   Said ‘Misty, misty is the nicht,
Auchterless,                                                Will ye show us the way, way
There’s mony a bonnie lass in the Garioch-o;                Will ye show us the way?’
There’s mony a bonnie Jean in the toon o’
Aberdeen                                                    ‘O, ye hae plenty o’ men,’ she said,
But the flower of them a’ lives in Fyvie-o.                 ‘That work for meat and fee;
                                                            I dinna think that I’d be safe
O come down the stairs, Pretty Peggy, my dear,              To guide ye on the way, the way
Come down the stairs, Pretty Peggy-o;                       To guide ye on the way.’
Come down the stairs, tie up your yellow hair
Bid a last fareweel to your mammy-o.                        ‘For I ken ye by the claes ye wear,
                                                            An’ by your blinkin’ e’e,
It's braw, oh it’s braw, a captain’s lady for to be;        That ye are the laird o’ Lochnagar,
It’s braw to be a captain’s lady-o;                         And so ye seem to be, to be
It’s braw to rant and rove and follow at his word,          And se ye seem to be..
And to ride when your captain he is ready-o.
                                                            ‘I’m nae the laird o’ Lochnagar,
I never did intend a soldier’s lady for to be,              I never expect to be,
A soldier shall never enjoy me-o;                           For I am but ane o’ his best men,
I never did intend to gang till a foreign land              I ride in his company–y
And I will never marry a soldier-o.                         I ride in his company.’

‘Mount’, cries the colonel, ‘mount, boys, mount’.           ‘ But I ken ye by your middle sae sma’,
‘Tarry’, says our captain, ‘oh tarry-o;                     And by your grass-green sleeve,
‘O tarry for a while, for anither day or twa’,              That ye are the lass o’ the Cowdenknowes,
Till we see if this bonnie lass will marry-o’.              And so you seem to be, to be
                                                            And so ye seem to be.
Twas in the early morning, when we marched awa,
And oh but our captain he was sorry-o.                      ‘It’s I’m nae the lass o’ the Cowdenknowes,
The drums they did beat ow’re the bonny braes o’            It’s nae her that ye see,
Gight,                                                      For I am but ane o’ her faither’s maids,
  And the pipes played The Lowlands o’ Fyvie-o.             And aye will ever be, be
                                                            And aye will ever be.’
Long ere we came to bonnie Ellon toon,
Our captain we had to carry-o;                              He’s catched her by the lily white hand,
And long ere we won to the streets of Aberdeen              Below the grass-green sleeve,
Our captain we had for to bury-o.                           And laid her on the mossy bank,
                                                            And speired na’ for her leave, leave



                                                       18
And speired na’ for her leave.                        Ye were in the ewe-buchts wi’ me, wi’ me,
                                                      You were in the ewe-buchts wi’ me.

Then he’s ta’en oot a hantle o’ gowd,                 Then he’s ca’ed ane o’ his best men,
And kaimed her yellow hair,                           To come and set her on;
Says ‘Here’s your fee, ye weel-faur’d maid,           ‘Ye may ca’ your kye yoursel’ goodman,
Frae me ye’ll no’ get mair, mair,                     But she’ll never ca’ them again, again,
Frae me ye’ll no get mair.’                           No she’ll never ca’ them again.

He’s lowped on to his milk-white steed,               For I am the laird of Lochnagar,
And after his men did gang,                           I’ve thirty ploughs and three
And ane o’ them cried oot to him,                     And I hae chose the bonniest lass,
‘O Master ye’ve tarried lang, lang                    In a’ the North countrie, countrie
O Master, ye’ve tarried lang.’                        In a’ the North countrie.

‘I hae bin east, I hae bin west,
And I’ve bin among the knowes;                        The Crocodile
But the bonniest lass that ere I saw,                 A famous Scotch Professor was a-walking by the
Was milkin’ her faither’s yowes, yowes                Nile,
Was milkin’ her faither’s yowes.                               O tempora! O mores!
                                                      When from the muddy waters crept a beastly
She set the cog upon her heid                         crocodile,
And she's gone liltin’ hame;                                   O tempora! O mores!
‘O whaur hae ye bin, my ane dochter?                  It gaped for to devour him, plaid, philabeg an’ a’
It’s ye hae tarried lang, lang,                       O tempo-tempora! Juch-heirassasasa!
It’s ye hae tarried lang.’                            We praise thee now and evermore, Dame Musica!

‘O wae be tae yer yoweherd man,                       He shriek’d ‘ho moi psu psu popoi’ then forth a
And an ill death may he dee;                          bagpipe drew,
He’s biggit the ewe-buchts sae far awa’                       O...
And they’ve trysted a man to me, to me                And on that noble instrument sweet Gaelic tunes he
They’ve trysted a man to me.’                         blew.
                                                              O...
When fifteen weeks was come and gone,                 Allegro, dolce, presto, - oh, how he did them blaw!
Sae pale and wan grew she,                                    O tempo-tempora . . .
She began to sigh and long                            We praise . . .
For his bonnie, blinkin’ e’e e’e,
His bonnie blinkin’ e’e.                              And at the first melodious howl that from the bag
                                                      did go,
It fell on a day, a bonnie simmer day,                          O...
She was ca’in’ her faither's kye;                     The ugly brute began to trip the light fantastic toe,
There cam’ a troop o' gentlemen                                 O...
And they were a-riding by, by                         Jig, reel, and waltz, and polka, and Highland fling
And they were riding by.                              an’ a’.
                                                                O tempo-tempora . . .
He’s ta’en the leave o’ a’ his men,                   We praise . . .
And to the lass gaed he;
Says ‘Wha’s the faither o’ that bairn,                It gnashed its teeth, and hopp’d and skipped the
That bairn that gangs wi’ thee, wi’ thee,             sandy plain aroun’,
That bairn that gangs wi’ thee?’                               O...
                                                      Till wi’ its waggling tail it knocked a lot o’
She’s turned awa’ and hung her heid,                  pyramids doun,
For she thocht muckle shame;                                   O...
But ne’er a word could that bonnie lassie say,        For they have lang been rickety, wi’ mummies,
But ‘The bairn’s faither’s at hame, at hame,          banes an’ a’,
The bairn’s faither’s at hame.’                                O tempo-tempora . . .
                                                      We praise . . .
‘Ye lee, ye lee, ye bonnie lass,
Sae loud’s I hear ye lee;                             And when he saw the pyramids had squashed the
For dinna ye mind that misty night                    crocodill,



                                                 19
          O...
He turned into the nearest pub, his inner man to fill,
          O...                                                The Day we went to Rothesay
He sipped and quaffed Nile water, an’ whisky,                 Ae Hogmany at Glesca Fair,
beer, an’ a’                                                  There was me, mysel’ and several mair,
          O tempo-tempora . . .                               We a’ went off to hae a tear
We praise . . .                                               An’ spend the nicht in Rothesay o.
All genuine Scotch Professors like fish their liquor          We wandered doon the Broomielaw,
swill,                                                        Thro’ wind an’ rain an’ sleet an’ snaw,
          O tempora! O mores!                                 And at forty minutes after twa,
If this one has not ceased to drink, maybe he’s               We wan the length o’ Rothesay, o.
drinking still;
          O tempora! O mores!                                    Durrum a doo a dum a day,
And all good men they drink with him, Greek,                     Durrum a doo a daddy o,
Teuton, Celt,an’ a’!                                             Durrum a doo a dum a day,
          O tempo-tempora! Juch-heirassasasa!                    The day we went to Rothesay, o.
We praise thee now and evermore, Dame Musica!                 In search of lodgins we did slide,
                                                              To find a place where we could bide;
                                                              There was eighty-twa o’ us inside
The D-Day Dodgers                                             In a single end in Rothesay, o.
We’re the D-Day Dodgers, out in Italy—                        We a’ laid doon to tak’ our ease,
Always on the vino, always on the spree.                      When somebody happened for to sneeze;
 8th Army scroungers with our tanks,                          And he wakened half a million fleas
 We live in Rome among the Yanks,                             In a single end in Rothesay, o.
We are the D-Day Dodgers, way out in Italy.                      Durrum a doo a dum a day, etc.
                                                              There were several different kinds o’ bugs,
We landed at Salerno, a holiday with pay;                     An’ some had feet like spaniel dugs,
The Jerries brought the bands out to greet us on the          And they sat on their airse and they cockit their
way…                                                          lugs,
 Showed us the sights and gave us tea,                        And they cried ‘Hurrah for Rothesay, o!’
 We all sang songs—the beer was free,                         ‘An’ noo,’ says I, ‘we’ll have to ’lope’
To welcome D-Day Dodgers, way out in Italy.                   So we went and jined the Band o’ Hope,
                                                              But the polis wouldna let us stop
Naples and Cassino were taken in our stride,                  Anither nicht in Rothesay, o.
We didn’t go to fight there—we went there for the                Durrum a doo a dum a day, etc.
ride.
  Anzio and Sangro were just names,
  We only went to look for dames—                             The Gallant Forty-Twa
We are the D-Day Dodgers, way out in Italy.                   Weel it’s s noo I am a sodger, and they ca’ me
                                                              Jakie Broon,
On the way to Florence we had a lovely time,                  I used to be a weaver, and I bade in Maxweltoon,
We ran a bus to Rimini right through the Gothic               But noo I’ve jined the airmy, and to Perth I’m gaun
Line,                                                         awa’,
  Soon to Bologna we will go                                  For to join the Heiland Regiment, the gallant Forty-
  And after that we’ll cross the Po,                          Twa.
We’ll still be D-Day dodging, way out in Italy.
                                                                 You may talk aboot your First Royals, your
Dear old Lady Astor, you think you know a lot,                   Scottish Fusiliers,
Standing on a platform and talking tommy-rot,                    Your Aberdeen Militia, and your dandy
  You, England’s sweetheart and her pride                        Volunteers,
  We think your mouth’s too bloody wide                          Your Seaforth’s wi’ their streekit kilts; an’ the
That’s from the D-Day Dodgers, in sunny Italy.                   Gordons big and braw;
                                                                 But gae bring to me the tartan o’ the gallant
Look around the mountains, in the mud and rain—               Forty-
You’ll find the scattered crosses, and some which                Twa.
bear no name;
  Heartbreak and toil and suffering gone,                     Noo, the very first day upon parade amang a lot o’
  The boys beneath them slumber on,                           raw recruits,
These are the D-Day Dodgers who’ll stay in Italy.             The sergeant he’s aye after me looking at my boots,




                                                         20
He tapped me on the shoulder, and says, Jock you            He’s beezed himsel’ up for a photy an a’
come awa,’                                                   Tae leave wi his Lola, his dearie.
For I think you'll make a helluva mess o’ the
gallant                                                     Sae fare weel ye dives o’ Sicily
Forty-Twa.’                                                 (Fare ye weel, ye sheiling an’ ha’),
                                                            We’ll a’ mind shebeens an’ bothies
When we were on manoeuvres, the sergeant says to              Whaur kind signorinas were cheerie
me:
‘Gang oot aboot, and scoot about, and see whit ye           Fare weel, ye banks o’ Sicily
can see;                                                    (Fare ye weel, ye sheiling an’ ha’);
If ye keep yer heid aye bobbin’ up, ye’ll gie us a’         We’ll a’ mind shebeens an bothies
awa’,                                                         Whaur Jock made a date wi’ his dearie.
For ye have the biggest napper in the gallant Forty-        Then tune the pipes and drub the tenor drum
Twa.’                                                       (Leave your kit this side o’ the wa’).
                                                            Then tune the pipes and drub the tenor drum
Noo, when the bugle sounded and dinner time cam’              A’ the bricht chaumers are eerie.
on,
I was the first man at the table, and in my hand a
spoon,                                                      The Jute Mill Song
Up cam’ the orderly officer and he turned his heid          Oh dear me, the mill’s gaun fast;
awa’,                                                       And we puir shifters canna get our rest;
‘Man, ye are the biggest glutton in the gallant             Shiftin’ bobbins coorse and fine.
Forty-Twa.’                                                 They fairly make ye work for your ten and nine.
Weel, it’s noo I am on furlough, to Dundee I will           O dear me, I wish the day were done;
gang,                                                       Runnin’ up and doon the paths in nae fun
And I will show my comrades it’s how to handle a            Shiftin’, piecin’, spinnin’—warp, weft and twine
gun;                                                        There’s nae much pleesure livin’ offen ten and
I’ll tak’ them in and stand a treat and when I start        nine.
to blaw,
Ye wad think I was fu’ colonel o’ the gallant Forty-        Oh dear me, the world is ill-divided
Twa.                                                        Them that works the hardest are the least provided;
                                                            I maun work the harder dark days and fine
                                                            To feed and clathe my bairnies offen ten and nine.
The 51st Highland Division’s Farewell to
Sicily
The pipie is dozie, the pipie is fey,                       The Laird o’ Cockpen
He winna come roun’ for his vino the day.                   The Laird o’ Cockpen, he’s proud and he’s great,
The sky ow’r Messina is unco an’ gray                       His mind is ta’en up wi’ the things o’ the state;
 An’ a’ the bricht chaumers are eerie                       He wanted a wife his braw house to keep,
                                                            But favour wi’ wooin’ was fashious to seek.
Then fare weel ye banks o’ Sicily,
Fare ye weel ye valley an’ shaw.                            Doon by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,
There’s nae Jock will mourn the kyles o’ ye,                At his table head he thocht she’d look well,
 Puir bliddy swaddies are wearie.                           MacClish’s ae daughter o’ Clavers-ha’ Lee,
                                                            A penniless lass wi’ a lang pedigree.
Fare weel, ye banks o’ Sicily,
Fare ye weill ye valley an shaw,                            His wig was weel pouther’d and as gude as new,
There’s nae hame can smoor the wiles o’ ye,                 His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue;
 Puir bliddy swaddies are wearie.                           He put on a ring, a sword, and cock’d hat,
                                                            And wha could refuse the laird wi’ a’ that?
Then doon the stair and line the waterside,
                                                            He took the grey mare, and rade cannily,
Wait yer turn, the ferry’s awa’.
                                                            An’ rapp’d at the yett o’ Clavers-ha’ Lee;
Then doon the stair an line the waterside,
 A’ the bricht chaumers are eerie.                          ‘Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben,–
                                                            She’s wanted to speak wi’ the Laird o’ Cockpen.’
The drummie is polished, the drummie is braw                Mistress Jean she was makin’ the elder-flower
He cannae be seen for his webbin’ ava.                      wine;
                                                            ‘An’ what brings the laird at sic a like time?’


                                                       21
She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown,                An’ awa she went wi’ the great muckle skate,
Her mutch wi’red ribbons, an gaed awa’ down.                An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon.

An’ when she cam’ ben he bowed fu’ low,                     She floated fu’ many a mile,
An’ what was his errand he soon let her know;               Past cottage an’ village an’ toon,
Amazed was the laird, when the lady said, ‘Na!’             She’d an awfu’ time astride o’ the gate,
And wi’ a laigh curtsie she tuned awa’.                     Though it seemed to gree fine wi’ the great muckle
                                                            skate,
Dumbfounder’d was he, but nae sigh did he gie,              An’ the lum hat wantin’ the croon.
He mounted his mare and he rade cannily;
An’ aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen,
                                                            A fisher was walkin’ the deck,
She’s daft to refuse the laird o’ Cockpen.’
                                                            By the licht o’ his pipe an’ the mune,
                                                            When he sees an auld body astride o’ a gate,
                                                            Come bobbin’ along in the waves wi’ a skate,
                                                            An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon.
The Lass of Patie’s Mill
The lass of Patie’s Mill,
                                                            ‘There’s a man overboard!’ cries he,
So bonnie, blithe, and gay,
                                                            ‘Ye leear!’ says she, ‘Man, I’ll droon!
In spite of all my skill
                                                            A man on a boord? It’s a wife on a gate,
Hath stole my heart away.
                                                            It’s auld Mistress Mackintosh here wi’ a skate,
When tedding of the hay,
                                                            An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon.’
Bare-headed on the green,
Love ‘midst her locks did play,
And wanton’d in her e’en.                                   Was she nippit to death at the Pole?
                                                            Has India bakit her broon?
Without the help of art,                                    I canna tell that, but whatever her fate,
Like flow’rs which grace the wild,                          I’ll wager ye’ll find it was shared by a gate,
She did her sweets impart,                                  An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon.
Whene’er she spoke or smiled.
Her looks they were so mild,                                There’s a moral attached tae my sang,
Free from affected pride,                                   On greed ye should aye gie a froon,
She me to love beguiled;                                    When ye think o’ the wife that was lost for a gate,
I wish’d her for my bride.                                  An auld fish-hake an’ a great muckle skate,
                                                            An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon.
O! had I all the wealth
Hopetoun’s high mountains fill;                             The Road and the Miles to Dundee
Insured long life and health,                               Cauld winter was howlin’ o’er moor and o’er
And pleasure at my will;                                    mountain,
I’d promise and fulfil                                      And wild was the surge of the dark rolling sea,
That none but bonnie she,                                   When I met about daybreak a bonnie young lassie,
The lass of Patie’s mill,                                   Wha asked me the road and the miles to Dundee.
Should share the same with me.
                                                            Says I, ‘My young lassie, I canna’ weel tell ye
The Lum Hat Wantin’ the Croon                               The road and the distance I canna’ weel gie.
The burn was big wi’ spate,                                 But if you'll permit me tae gang a wee bittie,
An’ there cam’ tum’lin’ doon,                               I’ll show ye the road and the miles to Dundee’.
Tapsalterie the half o’ a gate,
Wi’ an auld fish-hake an’ a great muckle skate,             At once she consented and gave me her arm,
An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon.                            Ne’er a word did I speir wha the lassie micht be,
                                                            She appeared like an angel in feature and form,
The auld wife stude on the bank                             As she walked by my side on the road to Dundee.
As they gaed swirlin’ roun’,
She took a gude look an’ syne says she:                     At length wi’ the Howe o' Strathmartine behind us,
‘There’s food an’ there’s firin’ gaun to the sea,           The spires o’ the toon in full view we could see,
An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon.’                           She said ‘Gentle Sir, I can never forget ye
                                                            For showing me sae far on the road to Dundee’.
Sae she gruppit the branch o’ a saugh,
                                                            I took the gowd pin from the scarf on my bosom–
An’ she kickit off ane o’ her shoon,
                                                            Says I ‘Keep ye this in remembrance o’ me;’
An’ she stuck oot her fit–but it caught in the gate,



                                                       22
Then bravely I kissed the sweet lips o’ the lassie,        Then this bold mameluke drew his trusty
E’er I parted wi’ her on the road to Dundee.               chibouque
                                                           With a cry of ‘Allah Akbar!’
So here’s to the lassie, I ne’er can forget her,           And with murderous intent, he ferociously went
And ilka young laddie that’s listenin’ to me,              For Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.
O never be sweer to convoy a young lassie
Though it’s only to show her the road to Dundee.           Then they parried and thrust and they side-stepped
                                                           and cussed
The sons of the prophet were hardy and                     ’Till their blood would have filled a great pot.
bold                                                       The philologist blokes, who seldom crack jokes,
The sons of the prophet were hardy and bold,               Say that hash was first made on that spot.
And quite unaccustomed to fear,
But the bravest of these was a man, I am told              They fought all that night, ’neath the pale yellow
Named Abdul Abulbul Amir.                                  moon;
                                                           The din, it was heard from afar;
This son of the desert, in battle aroused,                 And great multitudes came, so great was the fame
Could spit twenty men on his spear.                        of Abdul and Ivan Skivar.
A terrible creature, both sober and soused
Was Abdul Abulbul Amir.                                    As Abdul’s long knife was extracting the life -
                                                           In fact, he was shouting ‘Huzzah!’ - -
When they needed a man to encourage the van,               He felt himself struck by that wily Kalmuck,
Or harass the foe from the rear,                           Count Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.
Or to storm a redoubt, they had only to shout
For Abdul Abulbul Amir.                                    The sultan drove by in his red-breasted fly,
                                                           Expecting the victor to cheer;
There were heroes aplenty and men known to fame            But he only drew nigh to hear the last sigh
In the troops that were led by the Czar;                   Of Abdul Abulbul Amir.
But the bravest of these was a man by the name
Of Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.                                  Czar Petrovich, too, in his spectacles blue
                                                           Rode up in his new crested car.
He could imitate Irving, play Euchre and pool              He arrived just in time to exchange a last line
And perform on the Spanish Guitar.                         With Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.
In fact, quite the cream of the Muscovite team
Was Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.                                 A loud-sounding splash from the Danube was
                                                           heard
The ladies all loved him, his rivals were few;             Resounding o’er meadows afar;
He could drink them all under the bar.                     It came from the sack fitting close to the back
As gallant or tank, there was no one to rank               Of Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.
With Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.
                                                           There’s a tomb rises up where the blue Danube
One day this bold Russian had shouldered his gun           flows;
And donned his most truculent sneer;                       Engraved there in characters clear;
Downtown he did go, where he trod on the toe               ‘Ah stranger, when passing, please pray for the
Of Abdul Abulbul Amir.                                     soul
                                                           Of Abdul Abulbul Amir.’
‘Young man’ quoth Bulbul, ‘has life grown so dull,
That you’re anxious to end your career?                    A Muscovite maiden her lone vigil keeps,
Vile infidel! Know, you have trod on the toe               ’Neath the light of the pale polar star;
Of Abdul Abulbul Amir.’                                    And the name that she murmurs as oft as she weeps
                                                           Is Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.
‘So take your last look at the sunshine and brook
And send your regrets to the Czar;
By this I imply you are going to die,                      The Soor Mulk Cairt
Mr. Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.’                                Oh, I am a country chappie, an I’m serving at
                                                           Polnoon,
Quoth Ivan, ‘My friend, your remarks, in the end,          A wee bit fairm near Eaglesham, that fine auld-
Will avail you but little, I fear,                         fashioned toon,
For you ne’er will survive to repeat them alive,           Whaur in the mornin early, a little efter three
Mr. Abdul Abulbul Amir!’                                   We tak the road richt merrily, ma auld black horse
                                                           and me.



                                                      23
                                                            But mither wit an’ native fire
   Wi’ her cheeks red as roses an her e’en sae              That warms the bosom’s core.
bonnie                                                        Let kings and courtiers rise and fa’, etc.
   blue,
   Glancin’, entrancin’, they pierced me through
and                                                         The Twa Corbies
   through,                                                 As I was walking all alane,
   She fairly won ma fancy an she stole awa ma              I heard twa corbies makin’ a mane;
hert,                                                       The tane unto the ither say,
   Drivin’ intae Glesga in ma soor mulk cairt.              ‘Whar sall we gang and dine the-day?’

The other mornin early, as the Barlin I did pass            ‘In ahint yon auld fail dyke,
I happened tae foregaither wi’ fair young country           I wot there lies a new slain knight;
lass.                                                       And nane do ken that he lies there,
Says I ‘Ma bonnie lassie, if ye’re gangin’ ower that        But his hawk, his hound an his lady fair.’
airt
A’ll drive ye intae Glasga in ma soor mulk cairt.’          ‘His hound is tae the huntin’ gane,
         Wi’ her cheeks red as roses, etc.                  His hawk tae fetch the wild-fowl hame,
                                                            His lady’s taen anither mate,
I raised her up beside me an we soon got on the             So we may mak’ oor dinner sweet.
crack,
An wi’ a smile she telt me that her name was                ‘Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
Maggy Watt;                                                 And I’ll pike oot his bonny blue een;
I telt the auld auld story while the woods around us        Wi ae lock o his gowden hair
rang                                                        We’ll theek oor nest whan it grows bare.’
Wi’ the whistlin’ o’ the mavis an’ the blackbird’s
cheery sang.                                                ‘Mony a ane for him makes mane,
          Wi’ her cheeks red as roses, etc.                 But nane sall ken whar he is gane;
                                                            Through his white banes, whan they are bare,
I’ve heard o lords an ladies making love in shady           The wind sall blaw for evermair.’
bowers,
An how they woo’d an won amang the roses an the
flowers;                                                    The Wee Magic Stane
But I’ll ne’er forget the mornin’ little Cupid threw        Oh the Dean o’ Westminster’s a powerful man,
his dart                                                    He hauds a’ the strings o’ the state in his hand;
Drivin’ doon tae Glasga in the soor mulk cairt.             But a’ this great business it bothered him nane,
          Wi’ her cheeks red as roses, etc.                 Till some rascal ran aff wi’ his wee magic stane.
                                                               Wi’ a too-ra-li, oor-a-li, oor-a-li-ay.

The Star o’ Rabbie Burns                                    Noo the stane had great pow’rs that could dae such
There is a star whose beaming ray                           a thing
Is shed on ev’ry clime.                                     And withoot it, it seemed, we’d be wantin’ a king,
It shines by night, it shines by day                        So he ca’d in the polis and gave this decree–
And ne’er grows dim wi’ time.                               ‘Gae an’ hunt oot the Stane and return it tae me.’
It rose upon the banks of Ayr,                                  Wi’ a too-ra-li, etc.
It shone on Doon’s clear stream -
A hundred years are gane and mair,                          So the polis went beetlin’ up tae the North
Yet brighter grows its beam.                                They huntit the Clyde and they huntit the Forth,
                                                            But the wild folk up yonder jist kiddit them a’
   Let kings and courtiers rise and fa’,                    Fur they didnae believe it wis magic at a’.
   This world has mony turns                                   Wi’ a too-ra-li, etc.
   But brightly beams aboon them a’
   The star o’ Rabbie Burns.                                Noo the Provost o’ Glesga, Sir Victor by name,
                                                            Was awfy pit oot when he heard o’ the Stane,
Though he was but a ploughman lad                           So he offered the statues that staun in the Square
And wore the hodden grey,                                   That the high churches’ masons might mak’ a few
Auld Scotland’s sweetest bards were bred                    mair.
Aneath a roof o’ strae.                                        Wi’ a too-ra-li, etc.
To sweep the strings o’ Scotia's lyre,
It needs nae classic lore;



                                                       24
When the Dean o’ Westminster wi’ this was                   There’s them that’s independent o’ither
acquaint,                                                   tradesmen’s work,
He sent for Sir Victor and made him a saint,                The women need nae barber, the dykers need nae
‘Now it’s no use you sending your statues down              clerk,
heah’                                                       But nane o’ them can dae wi’oot a coat or a sark
Said the Dean, ‘But you’ve given me a first rate            Aye they a’ need the wark o’ the weavers.
ideah.’                                                        Gin it wisnae for the weavers, etc.
   Wi’ a too-ra-li, etc.
                                                            Nor oor joiners and oor slaters, oor glaziers and a’
So he quarried a stane o’ the very same stuff               Oor doctors and oor ministers and them that live by
An’ he dressed it a’ up till it looked like enough,         law
Then he sent for the Press and announced that the           And our friends in Sooth Americay, though them
Stane                                                       we never saw
Had been found and returned to Westminster again.           But we ken they wear the work of the weavers.
   Wi’ a too-ra-li, etc.                                       Gin it wisnae for the weavers, etc.

When the reivers fun’ oot what Westminster had              Oor sodgers and oor sailors, we ken they’re a’ bold,
done,                                                       But, faith, if they had nae claes they couldnae fecht
They went aboot diggin’ up stanes by the ton,               for cold
And fur each wan they feenished they entered the            The high and low, the rich and poor, a’body young
claim                                                       or old
That this was the true and original stane.                  Aye they a’ wear the wark o’ the weavers.
   Wi’ a too-ra-li, etc.                                       Gin it wisnae for the weavers, etc.

Noo the best o’ the joke still remains tae be tellt,        Noo weavin' is a trade that never can fail
Fur the bloke that was turnin’ them aff on the belt,        As lang as we need clothes for to keep a body hale
At the peak o’ production was sae sairly pressed,           Sae let us a’ be merry o'er a bicker of good ale
That the real yin got bunged in alang wi’ the rest.         And drink tae the health of the weavers.
   Wi’ a too-ra-li, etc.                                        Gin it wisnae for the weavers, etc.

So if ever ye come on a stane wi’ a ring
Jist sit yersel’ doon an’ proclaim yersel King,             The Yellow Haired Laddie
Fur there’s nane wud be able to challenge yir claim         The yellow-hair’d laddie sat down on yon brae,
That ye croont yersel King on the Destiny Stane.            Cries, ‘Milk the ewes, lassie, let nane of them gae.’
    Wi’ a too-ra-li, etc.                                   And aye as she milked, and aye as she sang:
                                                            ‘The yellow-hair’d laddie shall be my gudeman.’
                                                               And aye as she milked, &c.
The Work of the Weavers
We’re all met togither here tae sit and tae crack           The weather is cauld, and my claithing is thin,
Wi’ oor glasses in oor hands and oor work upon              The ewes are new clipped, they winna bught in:
oor back;                                                   They winna bught in altho’ I should die,
There’s nae a trade among ’em a’ could either               O yellow-hair’d laddie, be ye gude to me.
mend or mak’                                                   They winna bught in, &c.
If it wisna for the wark o’ the weavers.
                                                            The goodwife cries but the house, ‘Jenny, come
   Gin it wisnae for the weavers, what would we             ben,
do?                                                         The cheese is to mak’, and the butter’s to kirn;’
   We wadnae hae claith made o’ our ’oo;                    Tho’ butter, and cheese, and a’ should gae sour,
   We wadnae hae a coat neither black nor blue              I’ll kiss wi’ my lover for e’en half an hour:
   Gin it wisnae for the work of the weavers.               If we mak’ it a half-hour, we’s e’en mak’ it three,
                                                            For the yellow-hair’d laddie my gudeman shall be.
Now the hireman chiels they mock us and crack
aye aboot
They say that we are thin-faced, bleached like              Three Craws
cloots,                                                     Three craws sat upon a wa’,
And yet for a’ their mockery they canna dae                 Sat upon a wa’,
without’s,                                                  Sat upon a wa’,
Na they winna want the wark o’ the weavers.                 Three craws sat upon a wa’
   Gin it wisnae for the weavers, etc.                      On a cold and frosty morning.




                                                       25
The first craw up and flew awa’,                 To the beggin’ I will go.
Up and flew awa’,
Up and flew awa’,                               Gin I come on as I wid like
The first craw up and flew awa’,                 It’s I’ll come back and tell;
On a cold and frosty morning.                   But gin the trade gaes backlins,
                                                  I’ll keep it to mysel',
The second craw fell and broke his jaw,         To the beggin’ I will go, will go,
Fell and broke his jaw,                          To the beggin’ I will go.
Fell and broke his jaw;
The second craw fell and broke his jaw,
On a cold and frosty morning.                   Tramps and Hawkers
                                                Oh come a’ ye tramps an’ hawker lads an’
The third craw was greetin’ for his maw,        gaitherers o’ blaw;
Was greetin’ for his maw,                       That tramps the country roon an’ roon, come listen
Was greetin’ for his maw;                       ane an’ a:
The third craw was greetin’ for his maw,        I’ll tell to you a rovin’ tale o’ the sichts that I hae
On a cold and frosty morning.                   seen,
                                                It’s far into the snowy North an’ south by Gretna
The fourth craw wasna’ there at a’,             Green.
Wasna’ there at a’,
Wasna’ there at a’;                             Aftimes I’ve laughed until mysel’ when traivlin’ on
The fourth craw wasna’ there at a’,             the road,
On a cold and frosty morning.                   Wi’ twa rags roon’ my twisted feet; my face as
                                                broon’s a tod;
                                                Wi’ lumps o’ cake an’ tattie scones, wi’ cheese an’
                                                braxie ham,
To the Beggin’ I Will Go                        Ne’er giein’ a thocht tae whaur I’ve been, nor less
If the beggin’ be as good a trade               to whaur I’m gaun.
  As I have heard them say,
It’s time that I was on the road                I’ve done my share o’ humpin’ wi’ the dockers on
  And joggin’ doon the brae;                    the Clyde;
To the beggin’ I will go, will go,              I helped the Buckie trawlers haul their herrin’ ower
  To the beggin’ I will go.                     the side;
                                                I helped tae build the michty bridge that spans the
Afore that I do gang awa’                       river Forth,
  I’ll let my hair grow lang,                   An’ wi’ many an Angus fairmer’s rig I’ve ploo’d
I will not pare my nails at a’                  the bonny earth.
  For the beggars wear them lang,
To the beggin’ I will go, will go,              I’m happy in the simmertime beneath the bricht
  To the beggin’ I will go.                     blue sky;
                                                Nae thinkin’ in the mornin’ whaur at nicht I’ll hae
I’ll gang to the tailors,                       tae lie;
  They call him Arnie Gray;                     In barn or byre or onywhaur lyin’ oot amang the
I’ll gar him mak’ a coat to me                  hay,
  That will help me night and day,              An’ if the weather treats me right, I’m happy every
To the beggin’ I will go, will go,              day.
  To the beggin’ I will go.
                                                I think I’ll gang tae Paddy’s land, I’m makin’ up
And if there be a weddin’                       my mind;
  And me chance to be there;                    For Scotland’s greatly altered noo, I canna raise the
I’ll rise amang the weddin’ folk                wind;
  And bless the happy pair,                     But I will trust in Providence gin Providence
To the beggin’ I will go, will go,              proves true,
  To the beggin’ I will go.                     An’ I’ll sing to ye o’ Erin’s Isle when I come back
                                                tae you.
It’s some’ll gie me beef and breid,
  And some’ll gie me cheese,                    Oh come a’ ye tramps an’ hawker lads an’
And out amang the weddin’ folk                  gaitherers o’ blaw;
  I’ll gather up bawbees,                       That tramps the country roon an’ roon, come listen
To the beggin’ I will go, will go,              ane an’ a:



                                           26
I’ll tell to you a rovin’ tale o’ the sichts that I hae        Each honest, open-hearted friend,
seen,                                                          And calm and quiet be his end,
It’s far into the snowy North an’ south by Gretna              And a’ that’s good watch o’er him;
Green.                                                         May peace and plenty be his lot,
                                                               Peace and plenty, peace and plenty,
                                                               Peace and plenty be his lot,
Tullochgorum                                                   And dainties a great store o’ them;
Come, gie’s a sang, Montgomery cry’d,                          May peace and plenty be his lot,
And lay your disputes all aside,                               Unstain’d by any vicious blot,
What signifies’t for folks to chide                            And may he never want a groat,
O’er what was done before them.                                That’s fond of Tullochgorum.
Let whig and tory a’ agree,
Whig and tory, whig and tory,                                  But for the sullen, frumpish fool,
Whig and tory a’ agree                                         That loves to be oppression’s tool,
To drop their whigmigmorum;                                    May envy gnaw his rotten soul,
Let whig and tory a’ agree                                     And discontent devour him;
To spend the night wi’ mirth and glee,                         May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And cheerfu’ sing alang wi’ me                                 Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
The Reel o’ Tullochgorum.                                      Dool and sorrow be his chance,
                                                               And nane say, Wae’s me for him!
Tullochgorum is my delight,                                    May dool and sorrow be his chance
It gars us a’ in ane unite,                                    And a’ the ills that come frae France,
And ony sumph that keeps up spite,                             Wha e’er he be that winna dance
In conscience I abhor him.                                     The Reel o’ Tullochgorum.
It’s blythe and cheerie be’se we a’,
Blythe and cheerie, blythe and cheerie,
Blythe and cheerie be’se we a’,                                Twa Recruiting Sergeants
And make a happy quorum.                                       Twa recruiting sergeants came frae the Black
It’s blythe and cheerie be’se we a’                            Watch
As lang as we hae breath to draw,                              Tae markets and fairs, some recruits for tae catch.
And dance till we be like to fa’                               But a’ that they 'listed was forty and twa:
The Reel o’ Tullochgorum.                                      So list bonnie laddie an’ come awa.

What needs there mak’ sae great a fraise,                         And it’s over the mountain and over the main,
Wi’ dringing, dull Italian lays,                                  Through Gibraltar, to France and Spain.
I wadna gie our ain Strathspeys                                   Get a feather tae your bonnet, and a kilt aboon
For half a hunder score o’ them;                                  your knee,
They’re dowf and dowie at the best,                               And list bonnie laddie and come awa’ wi’ me.
Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie,
Dowf and dowie at the best,                                    Oh laddie ye dinna ken the danger that yer in,
Wi’ a’ their variorum.                                         If yer horses was to fleg, and yer owsen was to rin,
They’re dowf and dowie at the best,                            This greedy auld fairmer wadna pay yer fee.
Their allegros and a’ the rest,                                Sae list bonnie laddie and come awa’ wi' me
They canna please a Scottish taste                                 And it’s over the mountain and over the main,
Compar’d wi’ Tullochgorum.                                     etc.

Let wardly minds themselves oppress                            It’s into the barn and out o’ the byre,
Wi’ fears o’ want and double cess,                             This auld fairmer, thinks ye’ll never tire
And sullen sots themsells distress                             It’s slavery life o’ low degree,
Wi’ keeping up decorum;                                        Sae list bonnie laddie and come awa’ wi’ me.
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,                                   And it’s over the mountain and over the main,
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,                                etc.
Sour and sulky shall we sit
Like auld philosophorum?                                       With your tattie poorins and yer meal and kail,
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,                               Yer soor sowan soorins and yer ill-brewed ale,
Wi’ neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,                         Wi’ yer buttermilk and whey, and yer breid fired
Nor ever try to shak’ a fit                                    raw,
To the Reel o’ Tullochgorum?                                   Sae list bonnie laddie and come awa’.
                                                                  And it’s over the mountain and over the main,
May choicest blessings aye attend                              etc.



                                                          27
                                                          And fades away like the morning dew;
O laddie if ye’ve got a sweetheart and bairn,             O, wherefore should I busk my heid,
Ye’ll easily get rid o’ that ill-spun yarn;               Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
Twa rattles o’ the drum, and that’ll pay it a’,           For my true-love has me forsook,
Sae list bonnie laddie and come awa’.                     And ne’er will twine we me nae mair.
   And it’s over the mountain and over the main,
etc.                                                      When we came in by Glasgow toun,
                                                          We were a comely sicht to see;
                                                          My love was clad in the black velvet,
Waltzing Matilda                                          And I mysel’ in cramasie.
Once a jolly swagman sat beside the billabong,            It’s nae the frost that freezes fell,
Under the shade of a coolibah tree,                       Nor yet the snaw’s inclemencie;
And he sang as he sat and waited till his billy           It’s nae sic cauld that gars me greet,
boiled                                                    But my true love grown cauld to me.
‘You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me
                                                          Gin I had wist afore I kiss’t
   Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda                     That love had been sae ill to win,
   You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me;’               I’d lock’d my heart in a case of gold,
   And he sang as he sat and waited till his billy        And pinn’d it wi’ a siller pin.
boiled                                                    It’s oh if my young babe were born,
   ‘You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me@.              And set upon the nurse’s knee,
                                                          And I mysel’ were dead and gone,
Down came a jumbuck to drink beside the                   And the green grass growin’ ower me.
billabong,
Up jumped the swagman and seized him with glee;
And he sang as he tucked jumbuck in his                   The Wee Toon Clerk
tuckerbag,                                                Young Mysie she gaed up the street
‘You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.                  Some white fish for to buy;
    Waltzing Matilda’, etc.                               And the wee toon clerk he heard her step
                                                          And followed her on the sly.
Down came the stockman, riding on his
thoroughbred,                                                Ricky doo dum day, doo dum day,
Down came the troopers, one, two, three.                     Ricky-dicky doo dum day.
‘Where's the jolly jumbuck you’ve got in your
tuckerbag?                                                ‘O whaur do you bide my bonny lass,
You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.’                  I pray you tell to me;
   Waltzing Matilda, etc.                                 For gin the night were ne’er sae mirk,
                                                          I would come and visit thee.
Up jumped the swagman and plunged into the                         Ricky doo dum day, etc.
billabong,
‘You'll never take me alive,’ cried he;                   My father he aye locks the door
And his ghost may be heard as you ride beside the         My mither keeps the key;
billabong,                                                Gin ye were ne’er say wily a wight
‘You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.                  Ye canna win in to me.
    Waltzing Matilda, etc.                                        Ricky doo dum day, etc.

                                                          It’s I will get a ladder made
O waly waly                                               Fu’ thirty steps and three;
O, waly, waly up the bank,                                And I’ll climb up to the chimla tap
And waly, waly down the brae,                             And then come doon to thee.
And waly, waly yon burn-side,                                       Ricky doo dum day, etc.
Where I and my love wont to gae.
I leaned my back against an aik,                          The clerk he has a true brither
And thocht it was a trusty tree,                          And a wily wicht was he;
But first it bow’d and syne it brak,                      And he has made a ladder lang
And sae did my true love tae me.                          Fu’ thirty steps and three.
                                                                   Ricky doo dum day, etc.
O waly, waly but love is bonnie
A little time while it is new,                            He’s made a cleek but and a creel
But when it’s auld it waxes cauld                         A creel but and a pin;



                                                     28
And he’s awa to the chimla tap                     A’ for Scotland's King and law.
And he’s latten the wee clerk in.                     Will ye no come back again? etc.
       Ricky doo dum day, etc.
                                                   Sweet the laverock’s note and lang,
The auld wife couldna sleep that nicht             Liltin’ wildly up the glen.
Though late, late was the hour;                    But aye the ourcome o’ the sang,
I’ll lay my life, quo’ the silly auld wife         Was ‘Will ye no' come back again?’
There’s a man in our dochter’s bower.                Will ye no come back again? etc.
          Ricky doo dum day, etc.

The auld wife she gat up hersel                    Willie Brew’d A Peck O’ Maut
To see if the thing was true;                      O, Willie brewed a peck o’ maut,
But what the wrack took her fit in the dark        And Rob and Allan cam to prie,
For into the creel she fell.                       Three blyther hearts that lee-lang night
         Ricky doo dum day, etc.                   Ye wadna found in Christendie.

The man that was at the chimla tap                    We are na fou, we’re nae that fou,
Findin’ the creel was fu’                             But just a drappie in our e’e;
He wrappit the rope his elbow round                   The cock may craw, the day may daw,
And fast to him he drew.                              And ay we’ll taste the barley-bree.
         Ricky doo dum day, etc.
                                                   Here are we met three merry boys,
Oh help, oh help, my hinny now                     Three merry boys I trow are we;
Oh help my hinny doo;                              And monie a night we’ve merry been,
For him that he hae wished me at                   And monie mae we hope to be.
Has carried me aff jist noo.                         We are na fou, etc.
        Ricky doo dum day, etc.
                                                   It is the moon, I ken her horn,
O gin the foul thief’s gotten ye wife              That’s blinkin’ in the lift sae hie,
I wish he may keep his haud;                       She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
For a’ the lee lang winter’s nicht                 But, by my sooth, she’ll wait a wee!
You’ll never lie in your bed.                          We are na fou, etc.
         Ricky doo dum day, etc.
                                                   Wha first shall rise to gang awa,
He’s tow’d her up, he’s tow’d her doon             A cuckold, coward loun is he;
He’s let the creel down fa’;                       Wha first beside his chair shall fa’,
Till every rib in the auld wife’s side             He is the King amang us three.
Played nick nack on the wa’.                          We are na fou, etc.
          Ricky doo dum day, etc.


Will Ye No Come Back Again?                        Willie’s Gane to Melville Castle
Bonnie Chairlie’s noo awa’,                        O, Willie’s gane to Melville Castle,
Safely ower the friendly main;                     Boots an’ spurs an’ a’,
Mony a heart will break in twa’,                   He kissed the lassies a’ fareweel
Should he ne’er come back again.                   Afore he ga’ed awa’;
 Will ye no come back again?                       Willie’s young and Willie’s bonnie,
 Will ye no come back again?                       Lo’ed by ane and a’,
 Better lo’ed ye canna be,                         Oh what will a’ the lassies dae
 Will ye no come back again?                       When Willie gaes awa?
                                                   The first he met was Lady Kate,
When ere I here the blackbird sing,                She led him through the ha’,
Unto the evenings sinking down;                    An’ wi’ a sad and sorry heart
Or merle that makes the woods to ring,             She loot the tear doon fa.
To me there is nae ither sound.                    Beside the fire stood Lady Grace,
   Will ye no come back again? etc.                Said ne’er a word ava;
                                                   She thocht that she was sure o’ him
Mony’s the gallant soldier fought,                 Before he gaed awa’.
Mony’s the gallant chief did fall,
Death itself was dearly bought,



                                              29
   O, Willie’s gane to Melville Castle,                   He ca’d for help tae Glesca, they nearly chowed his
   Boots an’ spurs an’ a’, etc.                           ear;
                                                          ‘We’ve got the ’Gers an’ Celtic demonstrators
Then ben the house cam’ Lady Bell,                        here’.
‘Gude troth ye need na craw,                                ‘Aye, but I will sit here;’
Maybe the lad will fancy me,                                ‘Naw, but ye’ll no sit here,’ etc.
And disappoint ye a’;’
Doun the stair tripped Lady Jean,                         He telephoned the sodgers, but didna mak’ it clear;
The flower amang them a’,                                 The sodgers sent doon Andy Stewart tae volunteer.
‘O lasses trust in Providence                              ‘Aye, but I will sit here;’
An’ ye’ll get husbands a’.’                                ‘Naw, but ye’ll no sit here,’ etc.
   O, Willie’s gane to Melville Castle, etc.
                                                          He radioed the White Hoose but a’ that he could
When on his horse he turn’d awa’                          hear,
They gathered round the door,                             Was ‘two, one zero’ and the set went queer.
He waved tae them his bonnet blue,                          ‘Aye, but I will sit here;’
They set up sic a roar;                                     ‘Naw, but ye’ll no sit here,’ etc.
Their cries, their tears brocht Willie back,
He kissed them ane an’ a’,                                For Jack had drapped the H-bomb and gied himsel
‘O lasses bide till I come hame                           a shroud,
And then I’ll wed ye a’.’                                 An’ he met wi’ Billy Graham on a wee white
   O, Willie’s gane to Melville Castle, etc.              cloud.
                                                            ‘Aye, but I will sit here;’
                                                            ‘Naw, but ye’ll no sit here,’ etc.
Ye Cannae Shove Yer Granny Aff a Bus
Oh, ye cannae shove yer granny aff a bus,
Oh ye cannae shove yer granny aff a bus,
Ye cannae shove yer granny, for she’s yer
mammy’s mammy,
Ye cannae shove yer granny aff a bus.

Ye can shove yer ither granny aff a bus,
Ye can shove yer ither granny aff a bus.
You can shove yer other granny, for she’s yer
daddy’s mammy,
Ye can shove yer other granny aff a bus.




Ye’ll no sit here
Doon at Ardnadam, sittin’ at the pier,
When I heard the polis shout ‘Ye’ll no sit here’

 ‘Aye, but I will sit here;’
 ‘Naw, but ye’ll no sit here;’
 ‘Aye but I will,’
 ‘Na but ye’ll no,’
 ‘Aye, but I will sit here.’

’Twas chief inspector Runcie, enhancin’ his career
Prancin’ up and doon the road like Yogi Bear.
  ‘Aye, but I will sit here;’
  ‘Naw, but ye’ll no sit here, etc.’




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