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FRAE THE FRIENDS I LOVE

Nithsdale's welcome Hame.1

THE noble Maxwells and their powers
Are coming o'er the border,

And they'll gae biga Terreagles' towers,

And set them a' in order.
And they declare Terreagles fair,
For their abode they choose it;
There's no a heart in a' the land
But's lighter at the news o't.

Tho' stars in skies may disappear,
And angry tempests gather;
The happy hour may soon be near
That brings us pleasant weather:
The weary night o' care and grief
May hae a joyfu' morrow;
So dawning day has brought relief,
Fareweel our night o' sorrow.

Frae the Friends and Land I love.2

Tune-"Carron Side."

FRAE the friends and land I love,
Driv'n by Fortune's felly spite;

Frae my best belov'd I rove,

Never mair to taste delight:

Never mair maun hope to find

Ease frae toil, relief frae care;
When Remembrance wracks the mind,
Pleasures but unveil despair.

⚫ build.

1 Written for Lady Winifred Constable, whom Sir Walter Scott, in a letter to Lockhart, speaks of with scanty respect. Lady Winifred was descended from the Nithsdale of 1715,

and of the romantic escape from prison. Lady Winifred rebuilt Terreagles House.

2 Another Jacobite ditty: Burns only claimed the four last lines.

Brightest climes shall mirk appear,
Desert ilka blooming shore,
Till the Fates, nae mair severe,
Friendship, love, and peace restore.
Till Revenge, wi' laurel'd head,
Bring our banished hame again;
And ilk loyal, bonie lad

Cross the seas, and win his ain.

Such a Parcel of Rogues in a Nation.1

FAREWEEL to a' our Scottish fame,
Fareweel our ancient glory;
Fareweel ev'n to the Scottish name,
Sae fam'd in martial story.
Now Sark rins over Solway sands,
An' Tweed rins to the ocean,

To mark where England's province stands—
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

What force or guile could not subdue,
Thro' many warlike ages,

Is wrought now by a coward few,
For hireling traitor's wages.
The English steel we could disdain,
Secure in valour's station;

But English gold has been our bane—
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

O would, or I had seen the day
That Treason thus could sell us,
My auld grey head had lien in clay,
Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace!

But pith and power, till my last hour,
I'll mak this declaration;

We're bought and sold for English gold

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

1 Based on an old and well known

song against the Union, and the poli

ticians who procured it.

I HAE BEEN AT CROOKIEDEN

Ye Jacobites by name.1

YE Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear,

Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear,

Ye Jacobites by name,

Your fauts I will proclaim,

Your doctrines I maun blame, you shall hear.

What is Right, and what is Wrang, by the law, by the law? What is Right, and what is Wrang, by the law?

What is Right, and what is Wrang?

A short sword, and a lang,

A weak arm and a strang, for to draw.

What makes heroic strife, famed afar, famed afar?
What makes heroic strife, famed afar?

What makes heroic strife?

To whet th' assassin's knife,

Or hunt a Parent's life, wi' bluidy war?

Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state,

Then let your schemes alone, in the state.

Then let you schemes alone,

Adore the rising sun,

And leave a man undone, to his fate.

I hae been at Crookieden.2

I HAE been at Crookieden,

My bonie laddie, Highland laddie,
Viewing Willie and his men,

My bonie laddie, Highland laddie.

1 If a reference to the French Revolution is meant, it is extremely obscure. The " man undone," if Henry, Cardinal Duke of York, is intended, had, of course, no party, except the Laird of Gask, in 1792, when the song was published.

2 The den of Crookie is hell, of course. The reference to the Duke of Cumberland in the Scottish Inferno, is older than Burns, as in

Baith Scott and Lockhart's sent to hell

For to acquaint mama, Willie, That sune ye will be there yoursel' To roast ayont them a', Willie.

There our foes that burnt and slew,
My bonie laddie, Highland laddie,
There, at last, they gat their due,
My bonie laddie, Highland laddie.

Satan sits in his black neuk,

My bonie laddie, Highland laddie,
Breaking sticks to roast the Duke,
My bonie laddie, Highland laddie.
The bloody monster gae a yell,

My bonie laddie, Highland laddie,
And loud the laugh gied round a' hell
My bonie laddie, Highland laddie.

O Kenmure's on and awa,

Willie.1

O KENMURE'S on and awa, Willie,
O Kenmure's on and awa:
An' Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord
That ever Galloway saw.

Success to Kenmure's band, Willie !
Success to Kenmure's band!
There's no a heart that fears a Whig,
That rides by Kenmure's hand.

Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie !
Here's Kenmure's health in wine!
There's ne'er a coward o' Kenmure's blude,
Nor yet o' Gordon's line.

1 This song was a great favourite of Sir Walter Scott, for whom Mrs Lockhart used to sing it. Lord Kenmure was out with Lord Nithsdale in 1715, was taken at Preston, and executed on Tower-hill. An ancestor had been a prominent Covenanter. Scott declined to write a song for the

Gordons of Kenmure, as despairing to rival this piece.

The lines

"But sune, wi sounding victory,

May Kenmure's lord came hame!" are out of keeping with the rest, and are probably by Burns.

EPISTLE TO JOHN MAXWELL

O Kenmure's lads are men, Willie,
O Kenmure's lads are men;

Their hearts and swords are metal true,
And that their foes shall ken.

They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie ;
They'll live or die wi' fame;
But sune, wi' sounding victorie,
May Kenmure's lord come hame!

Here's him that's far awa, Willie !
Here's him that's far awa!
And here's the flower that I loe best,
The rose that's like the snaw.

Epistle to John Maxwell, Esq., of Terraughty,

On His Birthday.1

HEALTH to the Maxwell's veteran Chief!
Health, aye unsour'd by care or grief:
Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sibyl leaf,

This natal morn,

I see thy life is stuff o' prief,

Scarce quite half-worn.

This day thou metes threescore eleven,
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven
(The second-sight, ye ken, is given

To ilka Poet)

On thee a tack o' seven times seven

Will yet bestow it.

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow
Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow,

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1 Mr Maxwell did live to the great age of ninety-four.

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