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Tune Killicrankie."

O wha will to Saint Stephen's house,

To do our errands there, man?
O wha will to Saint Stephen's house,

O'th' merry lads o' Ayr, man ?
Or will we send a man-o'-law ?

Or will we send a sodger ?
Or him wha led o'er Scotland a'

The meikle Ursa-Major ?

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Come, will ye court a noble lord,

Or buy a score o’lairds, man ?
For worth and honour pawn their word,

Their vote shall be Glencaird's, man ?
Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine,

Anither gies them clatter ;
Anbank, wha guess’d the ladies' taste,

He gies a Fête Champetre.

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“ The occasion of this ballad was as follows :- When Mr Cunninghame of Enterkin came to his estate, two mansion-houses on it-Enterkin and Annbank—were both in a ruinous state. Wishing to introduce himself with some eclat to the country, he got temporary erections made on the banks of Ayr, tastefully decorated with shrubs and flowers, for a supper and ball, to which most of the respectable families in the county were invited. It was a novelty in the county, and attracted much notice. A dissolution of parliament was soon expected, and the festivity was thought to be an introduction to a canvass for representing the county. Several other candidates were spoken of, particularly Sir John Whitefoord, then residing at Cloncaird, commonly pronounced Glencaird, and Mr Boswell, the well known biographer of Dr Johnson. The political views of the festive assemblage which are alluded to in the ballad, if they ever existed, were however laid aside, as Mr C. did not canvass the county.”—Gilbert Burns.

When love and beauty heard the news,

The gay green-woods amang, man ; Where gathering flowers and busking bowers

They heard the blackbird's sang, man :
A vow, they seal'd it with a kiss,

Sir Politics to fetter,
As theirs alone, the patent-bliss,

To hold a Fête Champetre.

Then mounted Mirth, on gleesome wing,

O'er hill and dale she flew, man ; Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring,

Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man ;
She summon'd every social sprite,

That sports by wood or water,
On th' bonny banks o' Ayr to meet,

And keep this Fête Champetre.

Cauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew,

Were bound to stakes like kye, man ; And Cynthia's car, o'silver fu',

Clamb up the starry sky, man ;
Reflected beams dwell in the streams,

Or down the current shatter ;
The western breeze steals thro' the trees,

To view this Fête Champetre.

How many a robe sae gaily floats !

What sparkling jewels glance, man! To Harmony's enchanting notes,

As moves the mazy dance, man.
The echoing wood, the winding flood,

Like Paradise did glitter,
When angels met, at Adam's yett,

To hold their Fête Champetre.

When Politics came there, to mix

And make his ether-stane, man!

He circled round the magic ground,

But entrance found he nane, man:
He blushed for shame, he quat his

Forswore it, every letter,
Wi' humble prayer to join and share

This festive Fête Champetre.


Oh! I am come to the low countrie,

Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Without a penny in my purse,

To buy a meal to me.

It was nae sae in the Highland hills,

Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Nae woman in the countrie wide

Sae happy was as me.

For then I had a score o' kye,

Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Feeding on yon hills so high,

And giving milk to me.

And there I had three score o'yowes,

Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Skipping on yon bonnie knowes,

And casting woo' to me.

I was the happiest of a' the clan,

Sair, sair may I repine ;
For Donald was the brawest lad,

And Donald he was mine.

* I do not know on what authority Mr Cunningham assigns this Jacobite song to Burns; for we have heard old ladies sing it, who remember its existence anterior to the poet's time.-M.

Till Charlie Stuart cam'at last,

Sae far to set us free ;
My Donald's arm was wanted then,

For Scotland and for me.

Their waefu' fate what need I tell,

Right to the wrang did yield: My Donald and his country fell

Upon Culloden's field.

Oh! I am come to the low countrie,

Och-on, och-on, och-rie! Nae woman in the world wide

Sae wretched now as me.


Tune Cauld is the e'enin' blast."

CAULD is the e'enin' blast

O’ Boreas o'er the pool, And dawin' it is dreary

When birks are bare at Yule.

O bitter blaws the e'enin' blast

When bitter bites the frost, And in the mirk and dreary drift,

The hills and glens are lost.

Ne'er sae murky blew the night

That drifted o'er the hill, But bonnie Peg-a-Ramsey

Gat grist to her mill.


THERE was a bonnie lass,

And a bonnie, bonnie lass,
And she lo'ed her bonnie laddie dear;

Till war's loud alarms

Tore her laddie frae her arms, Wi’ mony a sigh and a tear.

Over sea, over shore,

Where the cannons loudly roar, He still was a stranger to fear :

And nocht could him quell,

Or his bosom assail,
But the bonnie lass he lo'ed sae dear.


O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet,

Mally's modest and discreet, Mally's rare, Mally's fair,

Mally's every way complete. As I was walking up the street,

A barefit maid I chanc'd to meet ; But O the road was very hard

For that fair maiden's tender feet.

It were mair meet that those fine feet

Were weel lac'd up in silken shoon, And 'twere more fit that she should sit Within

yon chariot gilt aboon.

O Mally's meek, &c.

Her yellow hair, beyond compare,

Comes trinkling down her swan white neck ;

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