Volume Ii Part 5 (1/2)

[49] Mr J. G. Lockhart.

DONALD MACDONALD.

AIR--_”Woo'd, and married, and a'.”_

My name it is Donald Macdonald, I leeve in the Highlands sae grand; I hae follow'd our banner, and will do, Wherever my master[50] has land.

When rankit amang the blue bonnets, Nae danger can fear me ava; I ken that my brethren around me Are either to conquer or fa': Brogues an' brochin an' a', Brochin an' brogues an' a'; An' is nae her very weel aff, Wi' her brogues and brochin an' a'?

What though we befriendit young Charlie?-- To tell it I dinna think shame; Poor lad! he cam to us but barely, An' reckon'd our mountains his hame.

'Twas true that our reason forbade us, But tenderness carried the day; Had Geordie come friendless amang us, Wi' him we had a' gane away.

Sword an' buckler an' a', Buckler an' sword an' a'; Now for George we 'll encounter the devil, Wi' sword an' buckler and a'!

An' O, I wad eagerly press him The keys o' the East to retain; For should he gie up the possession, We 'll soon hae to force them again, Than yield up an inch wi' dishonour, Though it were my finis.h.i.+ng blow, He aye may depend on Macdonald, Wi' his Hielanders a' in a row: Knees an' elbows an' a', Elbows an' knees an' a'; Depend upon Donald Macdonald, His knees an' elbows an' a'.

Wad Bonaparte land at Fort William, Auld Europe nae langer should grane; I laugh when I think how we 'd gall him Wi' bullet, wi' steel, an wi' stane; Wi' rocks o' the Nevis and Garny We 'd rattle him off frae our sh.o.r.e, Or lull him asleep in a cairny, An' sing him--”Lochaber no more!”

Stanes an' bullets an a', Bullets an' stanes an' a'; We 'll finish the Corsican callan Wi' stanes an' bullets an' a'.

For the Gordon is good in a hurry, An' Campbell is steel to the bane, An' Grant, an' Mackenzie, an' Murray, An' Cameron will hurkle to nane; The Stuart is st.u.r.dy an' loyal, An' sae is Macleod an' Mackay; An' I, their gude-brither Macdonald, Shall ne'er be the last in the fray!

Brogues and brochin an' a', Brochin an' brogues an' a'; An' up wi' the bonny blue bonnet, The kilt an' the feather an' a'.

[50] This is the term by which the Highlander was wont to designate his lawful prince. The word ”maker,” which appears in former editions of the song, was accidentally printed in the first edition, and the Shepherd never had the confidence to alter it.

FLORA MACDONALD'S FAREWELL.[51]

Far over yon hills of the heather sae green, An' down by the corrie that sings to the sea, The bonny young Flora sat sighing her lane, The dew on her plaid, and the tear in her e'e.

She look'd at a boat wi' the breezes that swung, Away on the wave, like a bird of the main; An' aye as it lessen'd she sigh'd and she sung, Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!

Fareweel to my hero, the gallant and young, Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!

The moorc.o.c.k that craws on the brows of Ben-Connal, He kens of his bed in a sweet mossy hame; The eagle that soars o'er the cliffs of Clan-Ronald, Unawed and unhunted his eyrie can claim; The solan can sleep on the shelve of the sh.o.r.e, The cormorant roost on his rock of the sea, But, ah! there is one whose hard fate I deplore, Nor house, ha', nor hame in his country has he: The conflict is past, and our name is no more-- There 's nought left but sorrow for Scotland and me!

The target is torn from the arm of the just, The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave, The claymore for ever in darkness must rust, But red is the sword of the stranger and slave; The hoof of the horse, and the foot of the proud, Have trod o'er the plumes on the bonnet of blue, Why slept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud, When tyranny revell'd in blood of the true?

Fareweel, my young hero, the gallant and good!

The crown of thy fathers is torn from thy brow!

[51] Was composed to an air handed me by the late lamented Neil Gow, junior. He said it was an ancient Skye air, but afterwards told me it was his own. When I first heard the song sung by Mr Morison, I never was so agreeably astonished--I could hardly believe my senses that I had made so good a song without knowing it.--_Hogg._

BONNY PRINCE CHARLIE.

Cam ye by Athol, lad wi' the philabeg, Down by the Tummel or banks o' the Garry, Saw ye our lads wi' their bonnets and white c.o.c.kades, Leaving their mountains to follow Prince Charlie?

Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee?

Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly!