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And by them lies the dearest lad

That ever blest a woman's e'e!

"Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
A bluidy man I trow thou be;
For mony a heart thou has made sair,
That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee!"

CHARLIE, HE'S MY DARLING

"TWAS on a Monday morning,
Right early in the year,
That Charlie came to our town,
The young Chevalier.

Chorus-An' Charlie, he's my darling,

My darling, my darling,
Charlie, he's my darling,
The young Chevalier.

As he was walking up the street,
The city for to view,

O there he spied a bonie lass
The window looking through,
An' Charlie, &c.

Sae light's he jumped up the stair,
And tirl'd at the pin;
And wha sae ready as hersel'

To let the laddie in.

An' Charlie, &c.

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

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,

Were loyal to Charlie?
Wha but the lads wi' the
Bannocks o' barley!

Bannocks o' bear meal, &c.

THE HIGHLAND BALOU

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

Leeze me on thy bonie craigie,
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!
Herry the louns o' the laigh Countrie,
Syne to the Highlands hame to me.

THE HIGHLAND WIDOW'S LAMENT

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.

I was the happiest of a' the Clan,
Sair, sair, may I repine;
For Donald was the brawest man,
And Donald he was mine.

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.

Oh I am come to the low Countrie,

Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie!

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

IT WAS A' FOR OUR RIGHTFU' KING

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.

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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

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 god-like 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,

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

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