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Song.-Willie brew'd a peck o' maut.1

O WILLIE brew'd a peck o' maut,
And Rob and Allan cam to see;
Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night,
Ye wadna found in Christendie.

Chorus. We are na fou, we're nae that fou,
But just a drappie in our ee;

The cock may craw, the day may daw
And aye we'll taste the barley bree.

Here are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys I trow are we ;
And mony a night we've merry been,
And mony mae we hope to be!
e are na fou, &c.

It is the moon, I ken her horn,
That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie;
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee!
We are na fou, &c.

Wha first shall rise to gang awa,
A cuckold, coward loun is he!
Wha first beside his chair shall fa',
He is the King amang us three.
We are na fou, &c.

1 Willie is Nicol, Allan is Masterton the writing master. The scene is between Moffat and the head of the Loch of the Lowes. Date AugustSeptember 1789.

So in Johnson's copy; altered to "last" in most editions.

The poet

does write "last" (underlined) when quoting two verses in a letter to Captain Riddell (Oct. 16, 1789), but there is a good reason for this, and Johnson's text may be correct enough.


Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes.1

Chorus.-Ca' the yowes to the knowes,b
Ca' them where the heather grows,
Ca' them where the burnie rowes,
My bonie dearie.

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1 It is easy enough to detect Burns's stanzas in this pastiche

I Gaed a Waefu' Gate Yestreen.1

I GAED a waefu' gate yestreen,
A gate I fear I'll dearly rue;
I gat my death frae twa sweet een,
Twa lovely een o' bonie blue.
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright,
Her lips, like roses wat wi' dew,
Her heaving bosom, lily-white-
It was her een sae bonie blue.

She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd;
She charm'd my soul I wist na how;
And aye the stound, the deadly wound,
Cam frae her een sae bonie blue.
But "spare to speak, and spare to speed;"
She'll aiblins listen to my vow:
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead
To her twa een sae bonie blue.

a road.

Highland Harry back again.2

My Harry was a gallant gay,

Fu' stately straded he on the plain;
But now he's banish'd far away,
I'll never see him back again.

Chorus.-O for him back again!
O for him back again!

I wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land
For Highland Harry back again.
b perhaps.

1 The lady is a Miss Jeanie Jaffray, daughter of the Minister of Lochmaben.

2 The oldest title I ever heard to this air was, "The Highland Watch's

• death.

d strode.

Farewell to Ireland.' The chorus 1
picked up from an old woman in Dun.
the rest of the song is mine.-
R. B., Glenriddell notes,


a rest.

When a' the lave gae to their bed,
I wander dowie up the glen;
I set me down and greet my fill,
And aye I wish him back again.
O for him, &c.

O were some villains hangit high,
And ilka body had their ain!
Then I might see the joyfu' sight,
My Highland Harry back again.
O for him, &c.

The Battle of Sherramuir.1

Tune-"The Cameronian Rant."

"O CAM ye here the fight to shun,
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man?
Or were ye at the Sherra-moor,
Or did the battle see, man?

I saw the battle, sair and teugh,
And reekin-red ran mony a sheugh";

My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough,d
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds,

Wha glaum'de at kingdoms three, man.
La, la, la, la, &c.

The red-coat lads, wi' black cockauds,
To meet them were na slaw, man;
They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd
And mony a bouk' did fa', man:

The great Argyle led on his files,
I wat they glanc'd for twenty miles;

They hough'de the clans like nine-pin kyles,

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1 This drawn battle was fought on Nov. 13, 1715. The piece follows a

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They hack'd and hash'd, while braid-swords clash'd,
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd,
Till fey* men died awa, man.

La, la, la, la, &c.

But had ye seen the philibegs,


And skyrin tartan trews, man;

When in the teeth they dar'd our Whigs,
And covenant True-blues, man :
In lines extended lang and large,
When baiginetsd o'erpower'd the targe,
And thousands hasten'd to the charge;
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath,
They fled like frighted dows, man!
La, la, la, la, &c.


"O how deil, Tam, can that be true?
The chase gaed frae the north, man;
I saw mysel, they did pursue,

The horsemen back to Forth, man;
And at Dunblane, in my ain sight,
They took the brig wi' a' their might,
And straught to Stirling wing'd their flight;
But, cursed lot! the gates were shut;
And mony a huntit poor red-coat,
For fear amaist did swarf, man!"
La, la, la, la, &c.

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