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I hae nae kith, I hae nae kin,

Nor ane that's dear to me,
For the bonny lad that I lo'e best,

He's far ayont the sea :
He's gane wi' ane that was our ain,

And we may rue the day
-*. When our king's daughter came here

To play sic foul play.

O, gin I were a bonny bird,

Wi' wings that I might flee,
Then I wad travel o'er the main,

My ae true love to see ;
Then I wad tell a joyfu' tale

To ane that's dear to me,
And sit upon a king's window,

And sing my melody.

The adder lies i the corbie's nest,

Aneath the corbie's wame;
And the blast that reaves the corbie's brood

Shall blaw our good king hame.
Then blaw ye east, or blaw ye west,

Or blaw ye o'er the faem,
O bring the lad that I lo'e best,

And ane I darena name.

James Hogg says,

“ This is a very sweet and curious little old song, but not very easily understood. The air is exceedingly simple, and the verses highly characteristic of the lyrical songs of Scotland." The ingratitude of the Prince and Princess of Orange many old songs have celebrated :


Ken ye the rhyme to porringer-
Ken ye the rhyme to porringer?
King James he had a daughter dear,
And he gave her to an Oranger.

Ken ye how he requited him-
Ken ye how he requited him?
The knave into Old England came,
And took the crown in spite oʻ him.

Scottish verse-makers indulged to the last the idle hope of the return of the Stuarts, and expressed their wishes in a thousand forms of hope and prophecy. Their expectations may be traced through innumerable mazes of allegorical absurdity; but they may be well excused for this affectation, since a plainer song would have put them in some small jeopardy.

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Dr., Carle, an the king come

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

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

Carle, an the king come.

I trow we swapped for the worse,
We ga'e the boot and better horse;
And that we'll tell them at the cross,

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

Carle, an the king come.

Nae mair wi' pinch and drouth we'll dine,
As we ha's done-a dog's propine,
But quaff our waughts o' rosie 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,

Cogie, an the king come.

The concluding verse of this old Jacobite chant is a fair specimen of the drunken loyalty with which many noblemen and squires of low degree cherished the memory and the hopes of the house of Stuart. They could carouse and empty the cup to any cause. The song

has long been a favourite, and many variations are known among the peasantry.


Come along, my brave clans,

There's nae friends sae staunch and true' ;
Come along, my brave clans,

There's nae lads sae leal as you.
Come along, Clan-Donuil,

Frae 'mang your birks and heather bracs,
Come with bold Macalister,

Wilder than his mountain raes.

Gather, gather, gather,

From Loch Morer to Argyle;
Come from Castle Tuirim,

Come from Moidart and the Isles :
Macallan is the hero

That will lead you to the field.
Gather, bold Siolallain,

Sons of them that never yield.

Gather, gather, gather,

Gather from Lochaber glens ;
Mac-Hic-Rannail calls you:

Come from Taroph, Roy, and Spean.
Gather, brave Clan-Donuil,

Many sons of might you know;
Lenochan's your brother,

Aucterechtan and Glencoe.

Gather, gather, gather,

'Tis your prince that needs your arm ;
Though Macconnel leaves you,

Dread no danger or alarm.
Come from field or foray,

Come from sickle and from plough;
Come from cairn and correi,

From deer-wake and driving too.

Gather, bold Clan-Donuil,

Come with haversack and cord ;
Come not late with meal or cake,

But come with durk, and gun, and sword.
Down into the Lowlands

Plenty bides by dale and burn;
Gather, brave Clan-Donuil,

Riches wait on your return.

This song, we are told by Mr. Hogg in his Reliques, is a genuine highland lyric, translated by a lady of the

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