THE HIGHLAND BALOU

⚫ bushy.

He set his Jenny on his knee,
All in his Highland dress;
For brawly weel he ken'd the way
To please a bonie lass,
An' Charlie, &c.

It's up yon heathery mountain,
An' down yon scroggie glen,
We daur na gang a milking,
For Charlie and his men,
An' Charlie, &c.

Bannocks o' Bear Meal.1

Chorus-Bannocks o' bear meal,
Bannocks o' barley,

Here's to the Highlandman's
Bannocks o' barley!

WHA, in a brulyie, will

First cry a parley?
Never the lads wi' the

Bannocks o' barley,

Bannocks o' bear meal, &c.

Wha, in his wae days,

с

Were loyal to Charlie?

Wha but the lads wi' the

Bannocks o' barley!

Bannocks o' bear meal, &c.

The Highland Balou.2

HEE balou, my sweet wee Donald,
Picture o' the great Clanronald;
Brawlie kensd our wanton Chief
Wha gat my young Highland thief.

b battle.

1 The words are certainly by Burns

to an old air.

⚫ troubles.

d well knows.

2 This excellent Celtic lullaby is said to be adapted from the Gaelic.

HIGHLAND WIDOW'S LAMENT

Leeze me on thy bonie craigie,b
An' thou live, thou'll steal a naigie,
Travel the country thro' and thro',
And bring hame a Carlisle cow.

Thro' the Lawlands, o'er the Border,
Weel, my babie, may thou furder!
Harry the louns o' the laigh Countrie,
Syne to the Highlands hame to me.

The Highland Widow's Lament.1

OH I am come to the low Countrie,
Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie!
Without a penny in my purse,
To buy a meal to me.

It was na sae in the Highland hills,
Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie!

Nae woman in the Country wide,
Sae happy was as me.

For then I had a score o' kye,
Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie!
Feeding on yon hill sae high,
And giving milk to me.

And there I had three score o' yowes,
Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie!
Skipping on yon bonie knowes,

And casting woo to me.

1 Entirely by Burns. The widow deplores the excesses of Cumberland.

IT WAS A' FOR OUR KING

Till Charlie Stewart 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 field.

Ochon! O Donald, oh!

Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie!

Nae woman in the warld wide,
Sae wretched now as me.

It was a' for Our Rightfu' King.1

It was a' for our rightfu' King
We left fair Scotland's strand;
It was a' for our rightfu' King
We e'er saw Irish land, my dear,
We e'er saw Irish land.

Now a' is done that men can do,
And a' is done in vain;

My Love and Native Land fareweel,
For I maun cross the main, my dear,
For I maun cross the main.

He turn'd him right and round about,
Upon the Irish shore;
And gae his bridle reins a shake,
With adieu for evermore, my dear,
And adieu for evermore.

1 The third verse of this beautiful song is found in a stall-ballad, but the date of the ballad is not ascertained.

Scott introduced the verse, with varia tions, in "A weary lot is Thine, fair maid," in Rokeby.

WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY

The soger frae the wars returns,
The sailor frae the main;
But I hae parted frae my Love,
Never to meet again, my dear,
Never to meet again, my dear,

When day is gane, and night is come,
And a' folk bound to sleep;

I think on him that's far awa,

The lee-lang night and weep, my dear,
The lee-lang night and weep.

Ode for General Washington's Birthday.1

No Spartan tube, no Attic shell,
No lyre Æolian I awake;

"Tis liberty's bold note I swell,
Thy harp, Columbia, let me take!

See gathering thousands, while I sing,
A broken chain exulting bring,
And dash it in a tyrant's face,

And dare him to his very beard,

And tell him he no more is feared

No more the despot of Columbia's race!

A tyrant's proudest insults brav'd,

They shout-a People freed! They hail an Empire saved.

Where is man's godlike form?

Where is that brow erect and bold—
That eye that can unmov'd behold
The wildest rage, the loudest storm
That e'er created fury dared to raise?
Avaunt! thou caitiff, servile, base,
That tremblest at a despot's nod,
Yet, crouching under the iron rod,

1 The Ode, or part of it, was sent to Mr Perry for The Morning Post. Mr Miller of Dalswinton (as Scott informed Lockhart) wished Burns to increase his income by contributing to this newspaper.

The last paragraph was printed by Currie; the rest of the poem, taken from the original MS., first appeared in the Kilmarnock edition of 1876.

WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY

Canst laud the hand that struck th' insulting blow! Art thou of man's Imperial line?

Dost boast that countenance divine?

Each skulking feature answers, No! But come, ye sons of Liberty, Columbia's offspring, brave as free,

In danger's hour still flaming in the van,

Ye know, and dare maintain, the Royalty of Man!

Alfred! on thy starry throne,

Surrounded by the tuneful choir,

The bards that erst have struck the patriot lyre,
And rous'd the freeborn Briton's soul of fire,

No more thy England own!

Dare injured nations form the great design,
To make detested tyrants bleed?

Thy England execrates the glorious deed!
Beneath her hostile banners waving,

Every pang of honour braving,

England in thunder calls, "The tyrant's cause is mine!”
That hour accurst how did the fiends rejoice

And hell, thro' all her confines, raise the exulting voice,
That hour which saw the generous English name
Linkt with such damnèd deeds of everlasting shame!

Thee, Caledonia! thy wild heaths among,

Fam'd for the martial deed, the heaven-taught song,
To thee I turn with swimming eyes;

Where is that soul of Freedom fled?

Immingled with the mighty dead,

Beneath that hallow'd turf where Wallace lies
Hear it not, WALLACE! in thy bed of death.
Ye babbling winds! in silence sweep,
Disturb not ye the hero's sleep,

Nor give the coward secret breath!

Is this the ancient Caledonian form,

Firm as the rock, resistless as the storm?

Show me that eye which shot immortal hate,
Blasting the despot's proudest bearing;