Here's to the chieftains

Of the gallant Highland clans!
They hae done it mair nor ance,
And will do't again.
Fill, fill, &c.

When you hear the trumpets sound
Tuttie taittie to the drums,

Up wi' swords and down wi' guns,
And to the loons again!
Fill, fill, &c.

Here's to the king o' Swede!
Fresh laurels crown his head :
Shame fa' every sneaking blade
That winna do't again!
Fill, fill, &c.

But to mak' a' things right now,
He that drinks maun fight too,
To show his heart's upright too,
And that he'll do't again.
Fill, fill, &c.

SUCH A PARCEL OF ROGUES IN A NATION!

ANONYMOUS. 1701.

Written on occasion of the Union between England and Scotland.

FAREWELL to a' our Scottish fame,
Farewell our ancient glory;
Farewell e'en to the Scottish name,

Sae famed in ancient story!
Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands,
And Tweed rins to the ocean,

To mark where England's province stands:
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation

What force or guile could not subdue
Through many warlike ages,

Is wrought now by a coward few ·
For hireling traitors' wages.
The English steel we could disdain,
Secure in valour's station;

But English gold has been our bane:
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

I would, ere I had seen the day
That treason thus could sell us,
My auld grey head had lain in clay
Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace!
But pith and power, to my last hour
I'll make this declaration,-

We're bought and sold for English gold:
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

JOHNNIE COPE.

ADAM SKIRVING, born 1719, died 1803. Air-"Fye to the hills in the morning."

COPE sent a letter frae Dunbar,

Sayin', Charlie, meet me an ye daur,
And I'll learn you the art of war,

If you'll meet me in the morning.

Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye wauking yet?
Or are your drums a-beating yet?
If ye were waukin, I wad wait

To gang to the coals in the morning.

When Charlie lock'd the letter upon,
He drew his sword the scabbard from:
Come, follow me, my merry merry men,
And we'll meet Johnnie Cope in the morning.
Hey, Johnnie Cope, &c.

Now, Johnnie, be as good's your word;
Come, let us try both fire and sword,
And dinna flee away like a frighted bird,
That's chased frae its nest in the morning.
Hey, Johnnie Cope, &c.

When Johnnie Cope he heard of this,

He thought it wadna be amiss
To have a horse in readiness
To flee awa' in the morning.
Hey, Johnnie Cope, &c.

Fie now, Johnnie, get up and rin,
The Highland bagpipes mak' a din;
It is best to sleep in a hale skin,
For 'twill be a bluidy morning.
Hey, Johnnie Cope, &c.

When Johnnie Cope to Dunbar came,
They speer'd at him, Where's a' your men?
The deil confound me gin I ken,

For I left them a' in the morning.
Hey, Johnnie Cope, &c.

Now, Johnnie, troth ye are na blate
To come wi' the news o' your ain defeat,
And leave your men in sic a strait

Sae early in the morning.
Hey, Johnnie Cope, &c.

Oh, faith! quo' Johnnie, I got sic flegs
Wi' their claymores and philabegs;
If I face them again, deil break my legs
So I wish you a gude morning.
Hey, Johnnie Cope, &c.

This highly popular song was written when the Highlanders were in full and joyous excitement at the defeat of the king's forces at Prestonpans, by Prince Charles, on the 22d of September, 1745. The battle has been sometimes called the battle of Tranent Muir, and of Gladsmuir. Sir John Cope, it will be remembered, was tried by a court-martial for his sudden retreat on this occasion, and acquitted. The author of this song was a farmer in Haddingtonshire.

CARLE, AN THE KING COME.

ANONYMOUS. Air-Carle, an the king come."

CARLE, an the king come,

Carle, an the king come,

Thou shalt dance and I will sing,
Carle, and the king come.

An somebody were come again,
Then somebody maun cross the main ;
And every man shall hae his ain,
Carle, an the king come.

I trow we swappit for the worse,
We ga'e the boot and better horse;
And that we'll tell them at the corse,
Carle, an the king come.

When yellow corn grows on the rigs,
And gibbets stand to hang the Whigs,
Oh, then we'll a' dance Scottish jigs,
Carle, an the king come.

Nae mair wi' pinch and drouth we'll dine,
As we hae done-a dog's propine-

But quaff our draughts o' rosy wine,

Carle, an the king come.

Cogie, an the king come,

Cogie, an the king come,
I'se be fou, and thou'se be toom,
Cogic, an the king come.

The chorus of this song, known [to have been sung in the time of Cromwell, bas served on several occasions, not only in the Parliamentary struggles of Charles I., but in the rebellions of 1715 and 1745. Sir Walter Scott wrote a parody or imitation of it, entitled, "Carle, now the king's come," on occasion of the visit of George IV. to his Scottish dominions.

R