O'ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE. From "Hogg's Jacobite Relics," 1821. COME, boat me ower, come, row me ower, To ferry me ower to Charlie. We'll over the water, and over the sea, It's weel I lo'e my Charlie's name, I swear by moon and stars sae bricht, I ance had sons, I now hae nane; THE WEE, WEE GERMAN LAIRDIE. From "Hogg's Jacobite Relics." WHA the deil hae we gotten for a king, This wee, wee German lairdie. And he's clapt down in our gudeman's chair, Come up amang our Highland hills, And if a stock ye dare to pu', Or haud the yoking o' a plough, We'll break your sceptre o'er your mou', Our hills are steep, our glens are deep, And our Norland thistles winna pu', And we've the trenching blades o' weir, Wad prune ye o' your German gear; We'll pass ye 'neath the claymore's shear, Thou feckless German lairdie. Auld Scotland, thou'rt ower cauld a hole But the very dougs o' England's court For wha the deil hae we gotten for a king PRINCE CHARLES AND FLORA MACDONALD'S WELCOME TO SKYE. From "Hogg's Jacobite Relics." Translated from the Gaelic. THERE are twa bonny maidens and three bonny maidens O'er the wind and the faem with the corrie for their hame, Come along, come along, wi' your boatie and your song, There is Flora my honey, sae dear and sae bonny, But the one as my king and the other as my queen, Come along, come along, with your boatie and your song, For the lady of Maclain she lieth her lane, And you're bravely welcome to Skye again. Her arm it is strong, and her petticoat is long, Come along, come along, with your boatie and your song, There's a wind on the tree and a ship on the sea, My twa bonny maidens and three bonny maidens; AWA', WHIGS, AWA'! From "Hogg's Jacobite Relics." OUR thistles flourish'd fresh and fair, Awa', Whigs, awa'! Ye're but a pack o' traitor loons; Our sad decay in church and state The Whigs came o'er us for a curse, A foreign Whiggish loon bought seeds, Our ancient crown's fa'n i' the dust, Grim Vengeance lang has ta'en a nap, The deil he heard the storm o' tongues, But he pitied us, sae cursed wi' Whigs, Sae grim he sat amang the reek, Scraps of auld Calvin's catches. Awa', Whigs, awa'! Awa', Whigs, awa'! Ye'll rin me out o' brunstane spunks, And ne'er do good at a'. THE HIGHLAND WIDOW'S LAMENT. OH, was not I a weary wight? Oh, ono chri, oh! oh, ono chri, oh! Maid, wife, and widow in one night! Oh, ono chri, oh! &c. When in my soft and yielding arms, Oh, ono chri, oh! &c. When most I thought him free from harms, Oh, ono chri, oh! &c. Even at the dead time of the night, Oh, ono chri, oh! &c. They broke my bower, and slew my knight, Oh, ono chri, oh! &c. With ae lock of his jet-black hair, Oh, ono chri, oh! &c. I'll tie my heart for ever mair; Oh, ono chri, oh! &c. Nae sly-tongued youth or flattering swain, Oh, ono chri, oh! &c. Shall e'er untie this knot again; Oh, ono chri, oh! &c. |