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Jocky's gane to France,

And Montgomery's lady;
There they'll learn to dance

“ Madam, are ye ready ?”
They'll be back belive,

Belted, brisk, and lordly ;
Brawly may they thrive

To dance a jig wi' Geordie.

Hey for Sandy Don !

Hey for Cockolorum !
Hey for bobbing John

And his Highland quorum!
Mony a sword and lance

Swings at Highland hurdie;
How they'll skip and dance

O'er the bum o' Geordie !

Some of this song is new, much of it is old, and much of it obscure. The suspicious and dubious story of Koningsmark is alluded to in the second and third verses; but the volatile bard skips away from that tragic occurrence as if it only furnished fresh matter for his mirth, and loses himself in the obscurity of wild plots and wilder prophecies. It is not easy to guess at his meaning; but the lively image of Jacobite triumph with which the

song terminates cannot fail to be understood : the attempt to realize it caused much blood to be shed, and filled the north with mourning. Count Koningsmark was of great personal beauty; and his barbarous murder of Mr. Thynne showed that his ferocity was equal to his outward accomplishments. That the electoral princess loved him many have doubted; that she favoured him few have denied. His vanity aspired to her person, and his presumption was rewarded by an immediate order of banishment. He besought a parting kiss of the princess's hand, and she indulged him with this in her chamber. He left the room, and never went farther; for he was seized and destroyed, and his body was secreted under her dressing-room, where it was discovered in the succeeding reign.

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.

There liv'd a lass in Inverness,

She was the pride o' a' the town;
Blithe as the lark on gowan top,

When frae the nest it's newly flown.
At kirk she wan the auld folks' love,

At dance she wan the lads's een;
She was the blithest oʻthe blithe,

At wooster-trystes or Halloween.

As I came in by Inverness,

The simmer sun was sinking down ;
O there I saw the weelfaur'd lass,

And she was greeting through the town.

The gray-hair'd men were a' i' the streets,

And auld dames crying sad to see, The flower o' the lads o' Inverness

Lie bloody on Culloden lee!

She tore her haffet links o' gowd,

And dighted aye her comely e'e;
My father lies at bloody Carlisle

At Preston sleep my brethren three !
I thought my heart could haud nae mair,

Mae tears could never blind my
But the fa' o ane has burst my heart,

A dearer ane there ne'er could be !

e'e;

He trysted me o' love yestreen,

O love tokens he gave me three ; But he's faulded i’ the arms o’ weir,

O, ne'er again to think o' me ! The forest flowers shall be

my

bed, My food shall be the wild berrie, The fa'ing leaves shall hap me owre,

And wauken'd again I winna be.

O weep, O weep, ye Scottish dames !

Weep till ye blind a mither's e'e ; Nae reeking ha' in fifty miles,

But naked corses, sad to see ! 0, spring is blithesome to the year ;

Trees sprout, flowers spring, and birds sing hie; But, О what spring can raise them up,

When death for ever shuts the e'e ?

The hand o' God hung heavy here,

And lightly touch'd foul tyrannie :
It struck the righteous to the ground,

And lifted the destroyer hie.
But there's a day, quo' my God, in prayer,

When righteousness shall bear the gree:
I'll rake the wicked low i' the dust,

And wauken in bliss the gude man's e’e.

The battle of Culloden-moor extinguished for ever the hopes of the house of Stuart; and our Jacobite songs were ever after sobered down into a sorrowful and desponding strain. The blood shed at the battle, and the desolation which the unbridled soldiery spread over so much of Scotland, made an impression on the hearts of the people which was long in effacing.

In the ruin of so many families, and the destruction of so many houses, the Cameronians beheld the fulfilment of their great apostle's prophecy : the song, therefore, sings no fabulous woes. It was first published in the Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway song.

JOHNIE COPE.

Cope sent a challenge frae Dunbar
Come, Charlie, meet me gin ye daur,
And I'll learn you the art of war,

If you'll meet me in the morning.
My men are bauld, my steeds are rude;
They'll dye their hoofs in highland blood,
And eat their hay in Holyrood

By ten to-morrow morning.

When Charlie looked the letter on,
He drew his sword the scabbard from
Come follow me my merry merry men

To meet Johnie Cope in the morning.
Hey, Johnie Cope, are ye waking yet,
Or are your drums abeating yet?
Wi' claymore sharp and music sweet

We'll make ye mirth i' the morning.

Atween the gray day and the sun
The highland pipes came skirling on ;
Now fye, Johnie Cope, get up and run,

'Twill be a bloody morning.
Oyon's the warpipes' deadlie strum,
It quells our fife and drowns our drum;
The bonnets blue and broadswords come-

"Twill be a bloody morning.

VOL. III.

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