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Jocky's gane to France,
And Montgomery's lady;
“ Madam, are ye ready ?”
Belted, brisk, and lordly ;
To dance a jig wi' Geordie.
Hey for Sandy Don !
Hey for Cockolorum !
And his Highland quorum!
Swings at Highland hurdie;
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;
When frae the nest it's newly flown.
At dance she wan the lads's een;
At wooster-trystes or Halloween.
As I came in by Inverness,
The simmer sun was sinking down ;
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;
At Preston sleep my brethren three !
Mae tears could never blind my
A dearer ane there ne'er could be !
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
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 :
And lifted the destroyer hie.
When righteousness shall bear the gree:
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.
Cope sent a challenge frae Dunbar
If you'll meet me in the morning.
By ten to-morrow morning.
When Charlie looked the letter on,
To meet Johnie Cope in the morning.
We'll make ye mirth i' the morning.
Atween the gray day and the sun
'Twill be a bloody morning.
"Twill be a bloody morning.