The Enlightenment Songster

A collection of 18th century songs,

with some of later date,

each to its own proper tune.

Compiled for

The Eighteenth Century Scottish Studies Society

by

William Donaldson and Ruth Perry

2009

CONTENTS

Amelia Earhart 2Auld Lang Syne 2Balm in Gilead 2Big Kilmarnock Bonnet 3Blow the Candles Out 3Calton Weaver 3-4Campbeltown Loch 4Chevaliers du table ronde 4Coulter’s Candy 4Dowie Dens o’ Yarrow 4-5Drumdelgie 5-6Farewell to Tarwathie 6Four Pence a Day 6Freedom Come All Ye 6Get Up and Bar the Door 6-7Gin I were where the Gadie rins 7Glenlogie 7-8Goodnight and joy be wi’ you a’ 8Hey, ca’ thro’ 8Husband, Husband, Cease your Strife 8If You will Mairry Me 8-9I know where I’m going 9Jamie Raeburn’s Farewell 9Jenny’s Bawbee 9-10Johnny Cope 10Logie o’ Buchan 10-11MacPherson’s Rant 11Maggie Lauder 11Mairi’s Wedding 11Mary Hamilton 11-12McGinty’s Meal and Ale 12-13Mingulay Boat Song 13Mormond Braes 13No more fish no fishermen 13-14Oh brother Sandy hear ye the news? 14Pair o’ Nicky Tams 14-15Pretty Flowers 15Puir auld woman 15Roll Alabama roll 15-16Rolling home across the sea 16Roseanna 16

Strangest dream 16Surrounded by water 16-17The Barnyards o’ Delgaty 17The Birks of Abergeldie 17The Bleacher Lassie o’ Kelvinhall 17The Bonnie Earl o’ Moray 17-18The Bonnie Lass o’ Fyvie 18The Broom of the Cowdenknowes 18-19The Crocodile 19-20The D-Day Dodgers 20The Day We Went to Rothesay, O 20The Gallant Forty-Twa 20-21The Highland Division’s farewell to Sicily 21The Jute Mill Song 21The Laird o’ Cockpen 21-22The Lass o’ Patie’s Mill 22The Lum Hat Wantin’ the Croon 22The road and the miles to Dundee 22-23The sons of the Prophet were hardy and bold 23The Soor Mulk Cairt 23-24The Star o’ Rabbie Burns 24The Twa Corbies 24The Wee Magic Stane 24-25The Work o’ the Weavers 25The Yellow Haired Laddie 25Three Craws sat upon a Wa’ 25-26To the Begging I will Go 26Tramps and Hawkers 26-27Tullochgorm 27Twa Recruiting Sergeants 27-28Waltzing Matilda 28Waly, Waly, up the Bank 28Wee Toun Clerk 28-29Will Ye No Come Back Again? 29Willie Brew’d a Peck o’ Maut 29Willie’s gane to Melville Castle 29-30Ye canna shove your granny aff a bus 30Ye’ll no sit here 30

1

Amelia EarhartA ship out on the ocean, just a speck against the skyAmelia Earhart’s flying sad that day;With her partner Captain Noonan on the second of JulyHer plane fell in the ocean far away.

There’s a beautiful beautiful field Far away in a land that is fair; Happy landings to you Amelia Earhart, Farewell first lady of the air.

She radioed position and said that all was well,Although the fuel within her tank was low;But she’d land on Howland island and re-fuel her monoplaneAnd then around the world again she’d go.

Well half an hour later her SOS was heard,Her signal weak but still her voice was brave;Over shark infested waters her plane went down that nightIn the blue Pacific to a watery grave.

And now you’ve heard my story of the awful tragedyWe wish that she might fly home safe again;But in the years to come though others blaze a trail across the skyWe’ll ne’er forget Amelia and her plane. There’s a beautiful beautiful field, etc.

Auld Lang Syne (text attributed to Mrs. Brown of Falkland)Should auld acquaintance be forgot, Or friendship ere grow cauld;Should we noo tighter draw the knot; aye, as we’re growing auld?How comes it then, my worthy friend, wha used to be sae kind?We dinna for each other speer, as we did lang syne?

Tho many a day be past and gane, sin’ we did ither see;Yet gin the heart be still the same, it matters not a flee.Gin ye hae not forgot the art to sound your harp divine,Ye’ll find still I can bear my part and sing as lang syne.

I think upon the mony days when I, in youthfu’ pride,Wi’ you aft rambled o’er the braes on bonny Bogie side.

The birdies frae the Arn tree, wha mixt their notes wi’ mine,Were not mair blyth, nor fu’ o’ glee whan we did lang syne.

I think upo’ the bonny springs, ye used to me to play;And how we used to dance and sing, the live-lang simmer day.Nae fairies on the haunted green, where moonbeams twinkling shine,Mair blythly frisked around their Queen, than we did lang syne.

What tho’ I be some aulder grown, and ablins not so gay;What tho’ my locks o’ hazel brown be now well mixed wi’ grey;I’m sure my heart’s nae caulder grown, but as my years decline,Still friendship’s flame mair kindly glows than it did lang syne.

Tho’ ye live on the banks of Don, and I beneath the Tay,Well might ye ride to Falkland’s Town Some bonny simmer’s day.And in that place where Scotland’s Kings aft birl’d baith Beer and WineLet’s meet, an’ laugh, an’ dance, an’ sing, And crack of lang syne.

Auld Lang Syne (standard version)Should auld acquaintance be forgot,And never brought to mind?Should auld acquaintance be forgot,And auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne. We'll take a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne.

Balm in GileadSometimes I feel discouragedAnd think my work’s in vain;But then the Holy spiritRevives my soul again.

There is a balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole, There is a balm in Gilead to heal the sin-sick soul.

If you can pray like PeterIf you can preach like PaulGo out and tell your neighborHe died to save us all. There is a balm, etc.

Big Kilmarnock BonnetWhan I was aff to leave the ploo says I to Fairmer Broon‘The money that you are owin’ tae me will you kindly lay it doonThis very day I mean to be in Glesca toon by half past threeI’ll bide nae mair a gackie in the country.’

Wi’ ma big Kilmarnock Bonnet as I ran to catch the trainI’ll never forget the trick that was played on me by Sandy LaingSays he ‘mind Jock when ye get tae the toon speir ye for Katie Bain, ma loon, She bides at number eichty street in Glesca.’

Now, when I got to Glesca toon the first young man I metI speired at him quite civilly, ‘can ye show me eichty street?’Wi’ that he bangs me on the lug says he ‘Dae ye tak me for a mug? I say young man ye’ll meet yer match in Glesca.’ Wi’ ma big Kilmarnock Bonnet, etc.

I met a bonny lassie then dressed in a strippet frock;She said tae me right cheerily, ‘Hello is that you, Jock?Yer big Kilmarnock’s aff the plumb come on and staun’s a donal o’ rum,Hoo lang do you intend to bide in Glesca?’ Wi’ ma big Kilmarnock Bonnet, etc.

Now the lassie in the strippet frock and her neighbour Katie BainAs long as I live I never do hope to see the pair again;They left me wi’ ma breeks and shirt, my big Kilmarnock covered wi’ dirtThrough rowin’ in the muckle streets o’ Glesca. Wi’ ma big Kilmarnock Bonnet, etc.

But that’s nae a’ my story, for I’ve mair to tell beside.The nicht bein’ dark and me bein’ fou, I fell intae the Clyde;They hauled me oot, they ran me in, they swore they saw me loupin’ in,And I finished up wi’ thirty days in Glesca. Wi’ ma big Kilmarnock Bonnet, etc.

Blow the Candles OutWhen I was apprenticed in London, I went to see my dear;

The roads they were all muddy, the moon shone bright and clear.I knocked upon her window to ease her of her pain,She rose up to let me in, then barred the door again.

I like well your behavior and this I often sayI cannot rest contented when I am far awayI cannot rest contented without a fear or doubtSo roll me in your arms, Love, and blow the candles out.

Your father and your mother in yonder room do lieA-hugging one another, so why not you and I?A-hugging one another, without a fear or doubtSo roll me in your arms, Love, and blow the candles out.

And if we prove successful, Love, please name it after meTreat it neat and kiss it sweet and doff it on your knee;When my three years are over, my time it will be outI’ll double my indebtedness by blowing the candles out.

Calton WeaverI am a weaver, a Calton weaver,I am a brisk and a roving blade;I have silver in my pouches,And I follow a roving trade.

Whisky, whisky, Nancy whisky Whisky, whisky, Nancy O.

As I walked into Glasgow city,Nancy Whisky I chanced to smell;I walked in, sat down beside herSeven long years I loved her well. Whisky, whisky, Nancy whisky, etc.

The more I kissed her, the more I loved her,The more I kissed her, the more she smiled;I forgot my mother's teaching,Nancy soon had me beguiled. Whisky, whisky, Nancy whisky, etc.

I woke early in the mornin’,Tae slake ma drouth it was my need;I tried to rise but was not ableNancy had me by the heid. Whisky, whisky, Nancy whisky, etc.Come landlady, noo, what’s that lawin’?Tell me what there is tae pay.‘Fifteen shillings is the reck’ning;Noo pay me quick and on your way.’ Whisky, whisky, Nancy whisky, etc.

I’ll gang back to the Calton weaving

I’ll surely mak those shuttles fly;I’ll make more at the Calton weavingThan ever I did in a roving way. Whisky, whisky, Nancy whisky, etc.

So come all ye weavers, ye Calton weaversWeavers a’ where e’re ye be;Beware of Whisky, Nancy WhiskyShe’ll ruin you like she ruined me. Whisky, whisky, Nancy whisky, etc.

Campbeltown Loch I wish you were WhiskyOh! Campbeltown Loch, I wish ye were whisky!Campbeltown Loch, och aye!Campbeltown Loch, I wish ye were whisky!I would drink you dry.

Now Campbeltown Loch is a beautiful place,But the price of the whisky is grim;How nice it would be if the whisky was freeAnd the loch was filled up to the brim. Oh! Campbeltown Loch, I wish ye were whisky! etc.

I’d buy a yacht with the money I gotAnd I’d anchor it out in the bay;If I wanted a nip I’d go in for a dipI’d be swimmin’ by night and by day. Oh! Campbeltown Loch, I wish ye were whisky! etc.

But what if the boat should overturnAnd drowned in the loch was I?You’d hear me shout, you would hear me call out‘What a wonderful way to die!’ Oh! Campbeltown Loch, I wish ye were whisky! etc.

But what’s this I see, ochone for meIt’s a vision to make your blood freeze:It’s the polis afloat in a dirty big boatAnd they’re shouting: ‘Time, gentlemen, please!’ Oh! Campbeltown Loch, I wish ye were whisky! etc.

Chevaliers de la table rondeChevaliers de la table ronde,Goûtons voir si le vin est bon. (2x)Goûtons voir, oui oui oui,Goûtons voir, non non non,Goûtons voir si le vin est bon. (2x)

S’il est bon, s’il est agréable,J’en boirai jusqu`à mon plaisir (2x)J’en boirai oui oui oui,J’en boirai, non non non,

J’en boirai jusqu`'à mon plaisir. (2x)

Si je meurs, je veux qu’on m’enterreDans une cave où il y a du bon vin. (2x)Dans une cave oui oui oui,Dans une cave non non non,Dans une cave où il y a du bon vin. (2x)

Les deux pieds contre la murailleEt la tête sous le robinet. (2x)Et la tête oui oui oui,Et la tête non non non,Et la tête sous le robinet. (2x)

Sur ma tombe je veux qu'on inscrive:‘Ici gît la reine des buveurs’. (2x)Ici gît, oui oui oui,Ici gît, non non non,Ici gît la reine des buveurs.’ (2x)

Coulter’s CandyAlly bally ally bally beeSittin’ on your mammy’s knee,Greetin’ for a wee bawbeeTo buy some Coulter’s candy.

Ally bally ally bally bee,When you grow up you’ll gang to sea;To get some pennies for your daddy and meTo buy some Coulter’s candy.

Mammy gie’s ma bankie doon,Here’s auld Coulter comin’ roon’Wi’ a basket on his croonFilled with Coulter’s candy.

Oor wee Jeannie’s lookin’ awfu’ thin,Jist a rickle o’ banes covered o’er with skin;But soon she’ll be getting’ a wee double chinFrom soukin’ Coulter's candy.

Here’s a penny my bonny wee manDoon the road as fast as ye can;Gie up your money at Coulter’s standFor a poke o’ Coulter's candy.

Livin’s afa’ hard the noo,Faither’s signin’ on the broo; But he’s got a penny for youTae buy some Coulter’s candy.

Go to sleep my bonny wee lamb,It’s seven o’clock and your playing’s done;But when you rise with the morning sunYou’ll get mair Coulter’s candy.

Dowie Dens o’ YarrowThere was a lady in the North

I never saw her marrow;She was courted by nine gentlemenAnd a ploughboy lad frae Yarrow.

These nine sat drinking at the wineSat drinking wine in Yarrow;And they made a vow among them allTo fecht wi; him on Yarrow.

She’s washed his face and kaimed his hairAs she has done afore-o;And she made him like a knicht sae brawTo fecht for her on Yarrow.

As he went walking tae his homeDown by the houms o’ Yarrow,It was there he spied nine gentlemenCome to fecht wi' him on Yarrow.

Oh three he slew and three they flewAnd three he wounded sairly;Till her brother John came in beyondAnd murdered him maist foully.

Oh faither dear I dreamed a dreamA dream o’ doom and sorrowFor I dreamed I was pullin’ heather bellsOn the dowie dens o’ Yarrow.

Oh dochter dear I read your dreamI know it will bring sorrow;For your ain true love lies pale and wanOn the dowie dens o’ Yarrow.

As she gaed up yon high high hillsDown by the houms o’ Yarrow;It was there she saw her ain true loveLyin’ pale and wan on Yarrow.

This lady’s hair was three-quarters longThe color it was yellow;And she’s tied it round his middle smallAnd she’s borne him down from Yarrow.

Oh faither dear you’ve seven sonsYe may wed them a’ tomorrow;But the fairest flower among them allIs the ploughboy lad frae Yarrow.

DrumdelgieThere’s a fairm toon up in Cairnie, That’s kent baith far an wide, Tae be the great Drumdelgie Upon sweet Deveronside.

The fairmer o’ yon muckle toon He is baith hard an sair, An the cauldest day that ever blaws, His servants get their share.

At five o’clock we quickly rise An hurry doon the stair; It’s there to corn oor horses, Likewise tae straik their hair.

Syne, efter workin’ half-an-hour, Each tae the kitchie goes, It’s there tae get oor breakfast Which generally is brose.

We’ve scarcely got oor brose weel supped, An gien oor pints a tie, When the foreman cries, ‘Hello, my lads! The hour is drawin’ nigh,’

At sax o’clock the mull’s put on, To gie us a’ stracht wark; An’ sax o’ us we mak’ tae her, Till ye could ring oor sark.

An when the water is put aff, We hurry doon the stair, Tae get some quarters through the fan Till daylicht does appear.

When daylicht does begin tae peep, An’ the sky begins tae clear, The foreman cries ‘Hello, my lads! Ye’ll bide nae langer here!’

There’s sax o’ ye’ll gang tae the ploo, An twa will drive the neeps, And the owsen they’ll be efter you Wi strae raips roon their queets.

But when that we were gyangin’ oot, An’ turnin’ oot tae yoke, The snaw dang on sae thick an’ fast That we were like tae choke.

The frost it was sae very hard, The ploo she wadna go; An’ sae oor cairtin’ days commenced Amang the frost an snaw.

Our horses bein’ but young and sma’The shafts they wadna fill;An’ aft required the saddler’s aidTo draw them up the hill.

But we will sing oor horses’ praise, Though they be young an’ sma, They far ootshine the Broadland’s anes, That gang sae big an’ braw.

Sae fare ye weel, Drumdelgie, For I maun gang awa; Sae fare ye weel Drumdelgie, Yer weety weather an’ a.

Sae fare ye weel, Drumdelgie, I bid ye a’ adieu; I leave ye as I got ye - A damned unceevil crew!

Farewell to TarwathieFarewell to Tarwathie, adieu Mormond HillAnd the dear land of Crimond, I bid you farewell;I’m bound out for Greenland and ready to sail,In hopes to find riches in hunting the whale

Farewell to my comrades, for a while we must part,And likewise the dear lass who first won my heart; he cold coast of Greenland my love will not chill And the longer my absence, more loving she’ll feel.

Our ship is well rigged and she’s ready to sail,The crew they are anxious to follow the whale;Where the icebergs do fall and the stormy winds blowWhere the land and the ocean is covered with snow.

The cold coast of Greenland is barren and bare,No seed-time nor harvest is ever known there;And the birds here sing sweetly in mountain and daleBut there’s no bird in Greenland to sing to the whale.

There is no habitation for a man to live there,And the king of that country is the fierce Greenland bear;And there’ll be no temptation to tarry long thereWith our ship bumper full we will homeward repair.

Four Pence a DayThe ore is waiting in the tubs the snow’s upon the fell,Canny folk are sleeping yet but lead is reet to sell;Come me little washer lad come let’s away;We’re bound down to slavery for four pence a day.

It’s early in the morning we rise at five o’clock,And the little slaves come to the door to knock, knock, knock;Come me little washer lad, come let’s away,It’s very hard to work for four pence a day.

My father was a miner and lived down in the town,’Twas hard work and poverty that always kept him down;He aimed for me to go to school, but brass he could not pay,

So I had to go to the washing rake for four pence a day.

My mother rises out of bed with tears on her cheeks,Puts my wallet on my shoulders, which has to serve a week;It often fills her great big heart when she unto me does say,‘I never thought you would have to work for four pence a day.’

Fourpence a day, me lads, and very hard to work,And never a pleasant look from a gruffy looking Turk;His conscience it may fall and his heart it may give way,Then he’ll raise our wages to nine pence a day.

Freedom Come All YeRoch the wind in the clear day dawin’,Blaws the cloods heelster-gowdie o’er the bay;But there’s mair nor a roch wind blawin’Through the great glen o’ the warld the day.It’s a thocht that would gar oor rottans,A’ thae rogues that gang gallus, fresh and gay;Tak’ the road tae seek ither loaninsFor their ill ploys tae sport and play

Nae mair will the bonnie callantsMairch tae war when oor braggarts croosely crawNor wee weans frae pitheid and clachanMourn the ships sailin’ doon the BroomielawBroken faimlies in lands we’ve herriet,Will curse Scotland the Brave nae mair, nae mair;Black and white, ane til ither marriet,Mak the vile barracks o’ their maisters bare.

So come all ye at hame wi' Freedom,Never heed whit the hoodies croak for doom,In your hoose a’ the bairns o’ AdamCan find breid, barley-bree and painted room.When MacLean meets wi’s freens in SpringburnA’ the roses and geans will turn tae bloom,And a black boy frae yont NyangaDings the fell gallows o’ the burghers doon.

Get up and bar the doorIt fell about the Martinmas,And a gey time it was than o,When our gudewife had puddins to mak’,And she boil’d them in the pan o.

The barrin’ o’ our door weel, weel, weel, And the barrin’ o’ our door weel.

The wind blew cauld fae south to north,It blew across the floor o;

Says our gudeman to our gudewife:‘Get up and bar the door o.’ The barrin’, etc.

‘My hand is at my huswife-skep,Gudeman, as ye may see o;If it shouldna be barr’d this hunner year,It winna be barr’d by me o.’ The barrin’, etc.

They made a paction ’tween them twa,They made it firm and sure o,The first that spak’ the foremost wordShould rise and bar the door o. The barrin’, etc.

Then by there came twa gentlemenAt twelve o’clock at nicht o;That could neither see house nor ha’,Nor coal nor candle-licht o. The barrin’, etc.

‘Now whether is this a rich man’s houseOr whether is this a puir o?’But ne’er a word wad either speak,For the barrin’ o’ the door o. The barrin’, etc.

And first they ate the white puddins,And syne they ate the black o;And muckle thocht our gudewife to hersell,But never a word she spak’ o. The barrin’, etc.

Then said the tane unto the tiher:‘Hey, man, take ye my knife o;Do ye tak’ aff the auld man’s beard,While I kiss the gudewife o.’ The barrin’, etc.

‘But there’s nae water in the house,And what shall we do than o?’‘What ails ye at the puddin’ breeThat boils into the pan o?’ The barrin’, etc.

O up then startit our gudeman,And an angry man was he o:Wad ye kiss my wife before my face,And scaud me wi’ puddin’ bree o?’ The barrin’, etc.

Then up and startit our gudewifeGied three skips on the floor o:‘Gudeman, ye spak the foremost word,Get up and bar the door o.’ The barrin’, etc.

Oh, Gin I were where the Gadie RinsOh, gin I were where the Gadie rins, Where the Gadie rins, where the Gadie rins;Oh, gin I were where the Gadie rins,At the back o’ Benachie.

I never had but twa richt lads,But twa richt lads, but twa richt lads;I never had but twa richt ladsThat cam’ and courtit me.

And the tane was killed at the Lourin Fair,At the Lourin Fair, at the Lourin Fair;Oh, the tane was killed at the Lourin FairAnd the tither was drooned in the Dee.

They bocht tae me a braw new goon, A braw new goon, a braw new goon;They bocht for me a braw new goon,And ribbons tae busk it wi’.

I bocht tae them the linnen fine,The linnen fine, the linnen fine;I bocht tae them the linnen fineTheir windin’ sheet tae be.

It’s noo this twice I’ve been a bride,I’ve been a bride, I’ve been a bride;It’s noo this twice I’ve been a bride,But a wife I’ll never be.

Oh, gin I were where the Gadie rins, Where the Gadie rins, where the Gadie rins;Oh, gin I were where the Gadie rins,At the back o’ Benachie.

Bonnie Glenlogie and Jean o’ BethelnieNine and nine horsemen rode through Banchory Fair And Bonnie Glenlogie was the floor o’ a there [repeat}

Nine and nine ladies sat in the Queen’s DineAnd Bonnie Jeanie o’ Bethelnie was the floor o’ twice nine [repeat]

She’s called her foot boy, who stood by her side‘O who is that horseman and where does he bide?’ [repeat}

‘His name is Glenlogie when he is at hameHe’s o’ the noble Gordons and his name is Lord John’ [repeat]

‘Glenlogie, Glenlogie, if you should prove kindA maiden’s love is on you, shall she die in her prime?’ [repeat]

He turned about lichtly, as Gordons dae a

‘I thank you Lady Jean; I am promised awa’ [repeat]

She’s called her father’s chaplain, a man of great skillHe’s written a letter, and indited it weel [repeat]

The first word that Glenlogie read, loud, loud laughed heThe next word that Glenlogie read, the tear blinded his ee [repeat]

‘Go saddle my black horse and bring him to the green’But e’re they had it ready, he was twal mile on his lean [repeat]

Pale and wan was she when Glenlogie gaed benBut reid and rosy grew she, when she saw it was him

(As sung by Angus Ross (b. Dundee, 1928) on 12 May 2007Corrected: 4 Sept. 2007 Vancouver, BC 29 April 2009

Good Night and joy be wi’ you a’This night is my departing night,The morn’s the day I maun awa’;There’s nae a friend or fae o’ mine,But wishes that I were awa;What I had done for lack o’ witI never never can reca’;I trust ye’re a’ my friends as yet,Good night and joy be wi’ ye a’.

Hey, ca’ thro’Up wi’ the carls o’ Dysart,And the lads o’ Buckhaven,And the kimmers o’ Largo,And the lasses o’ Leven. Hey, ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’, For we hae muckle ado.

We hae tales to tell,An’ we hae sangs to sing;We hae pennies tae spend,An’ we hae pints to bring. Hey, ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’, etc.

We’ll live a’ our days,And them that comes ahin,Let them dae the like,An’ spend the gear they win. Hey, ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’, etc

Husband husband cease your strife‘Husband, husband, cease your strife, Nor longer idly rave, sir! Tho’ I am your wedded wife, Yet I am not your slave, sir.’

‘One of two must still obey, Nancy, Nancy! Is it Man or Woman, say, My spouse Nancy?’

‘If ‘tis still the lordly word, Service and obedience, I’ll desert my sov’reign lord, And so goodbye, allegiance!’

‘Sad will I be so bereft, Nancy, Nancy! Yet I’ll try to mak’ a shift, My spouse Nancy!’

‘My poor heart, then brak it must, My last hour I’m near it: And when you lay me in the dust, Think, think how will you bear it!’

‘I will hope and trust in Heaven, Nancy, Nancy! Strength to bear it will be given, My spouse Nancy.’

‘Well, sir, from the silent dead, Still I’ll try to daunt you: Ever round your midnight bed Horrid sprites shall haunt you!’

‘I’ll wed another like my dear, Nancy, Nancy! Then all Hell will fly for fear, My spouse Nancy!’

If you will mairry meOh, I’ll gie ye a packet o’ pins,For that’s the way that love begins,If ye will mairry, airry-airry-airry,Ye will mairry me.

Oh, I’ll nae tak’ yer packet o’ pins,That’s nae the way that love begins,An’ I’ll nae mairry, airry-airry-airry,I’ll nae mairry you.

Oh, I’ll gie ye a dress o’ red,Stitched a’ roon wi’ a silver threid,If ye will mairry, airry-airry-airry,Ye will mairry me.

Oh I’ll nae tak’ your dress o’ red,

Stitched a’ roon wi’ a silver threid,An’ I’ll nae mairry, airry-airry-airry,I’ll nae mairry you.

Oh I’ll gie ye a silver spoon,Tae feed the bairn in the aifternoon,If ye will mairry, airry-airry-airry,Ye will mairry me.

Oh I’ll nae tak’ yer silver spoon,Tae feed the bairn in the aifternoon,An’ I’ll nae mairry, airry-airry-airry,I’ll nae mairry you.

Oh I’ll gie ye the keys o’ the chest,And a’ the money that I possess,If ye will mairry, airry-airry-airry,Ye will mairry me.

Oh I will tak the keys o’ the chest,And a’ the money that ye posses,And I will mairry, airry-airry-airry,I will mairry you.

Ha, ha, ha, yer helluva funny,Ye dinna love me but ye love my money,An’ I’ll nae mairry, airry-airry-airry,I’ll nae mairry you.

I Know Where I’m Goin’I know where I’m goin’ and I know who’s goin’ with me;I know who I love and my dear knows who I'll marry.

I have stockings of silk and shoes of bright green leather,Combs to buckle my hair and a ring for every finger.

O, feather beds are soft and painted rooms are bonnie,But I would give them all for my handsome winsome Johnny.

Some say that he’s black, but I say that he's bonnie;Fairest of them all is my handsome winsome Johnny.

I know where I’m goin' and I know who’s goin’ with me,I know who I love and my dear knows who I’ll marry.

Jamie Raeburn’s FarewellMy name is Jamie Raeburn, in Glasgow I was born,My place and habitation I’m forced to leave with scorn;Frae my place and habitation I now must gang awa’

Far frae the bonnie hills and dales o’ Caledonia.

It was early one morning just at the break of day,We were wakened by the turnkey, who unto us did say:‘Arise, ye hapless convicts, arise ye, ane and a’,This is the day ye are to stray from Caledonia.’

We a’ arose, put on our clothes, our hairts were fu’ o’ grief,Our friends wha stood around the coach, could grant us no relief,Our parents, wives and sweethearts dear, their hairts were broke in twa,To see us leave the bonnie braes o’ Caledonia.

Fareweel, my aged mither, I’m vexed for what I’ve done,I hope none will cast up to you the race that I have run;I hope God will protect you when I am far awa’,Far frae the bonnie hills and dales o’ Caledonia.

Fareweel, my honest father, ye were the best o’ men,And likewise my ain sweetheart, it’s Catherine is her name,Nae mair we’ll walk by Clyde’s clear stream or by the Broomielaw,For I must leave the hills and dales o’ Caledonia.

My name is Jamie Raeburn, in Glasgow I was born,My place and habitation I’m forced to leave with scorn;Frae my place and habitation I now must gang awa’,Far frae the bonnie hills and dales o’ Caledonia.

Jenny’s BawbeeI met four chaps yon birks amang,Wi’ hingin’ lugs and faces lang,I speered at neighbour Bauldy Strang,O what could it be? Quo’ he, ‘each whey-faced pawky chiel,Thought he was clever as the deil,Whan he cam here awa to steal

Jenny’s Bawbee.

The first, a captain to his trade,Wi’ skull ill-lined, and back weel clad,Marched round the barn and by the shed,And papped on his knee;Quo’ he, ‘my goddess, nymph, and queen,Your beauty’s dazzled baith my een.But deil a beauty had he seen

But Jenny’s Bawbee.

A Norlan laird neist trotted up,Wi’ bawsen’d nag and siller whup,

Cries, ‘there’s my beast lad, haud the grup,Or tie him to a tree,—What’s gowd to me? I’ve walth o’ lan’,Bestow on ane o’ worth your han’,He thought to pay what he was awn

Wi’ Jenny’s Bawbee.

A Lawyer neist wi’ blethering gab,Wi’ speeches wove like ony wab, In ilk ane’s corn he took a dab,And a’ for a fee;Accounts he ow’d through a’ the town,But tradesmen’s tongues nae mair could drown,Haith now he thought to clout his gown

Wi’ Jenny’s Bawbee.

Then spruce, frae ban-boxes and tubs,The fop came neist, but life has rubs;Foul were the roads, and fu’ the dubs,Ah! wae’s me;A’ clatty, squintin’ though a glass,He girned ‘I’ faith, a bonny lass,’He thought to win wi’ front o’ brass

Jenny’s Bawbee.

She bade the Laird gang kame his wig,The Sodger no to strut sae big,The lawyer no to be a prig;The Fool cried ‘Tee-hee.I kent that I could never fail,’She prin’d the dishclout till his tail,And cool’d him wi’ a water pail,

And kept her Bawbee.

Then Johnny came, a lad o’ sense,Although he had na mony pence,He took young Jenny to the spence,Wi’ her to crack a-wee;Now Johnny was a clever chiel,And there his suit he pressed sae weel,That Jenny’s heart grew saft as jeel,

And she birl’d her bawbee.

Johnny CopeCope sent a challenge frae Dunbar,Sayin ‘Charlie meet me an’ ye daur;An’ I’ll learn ye the art o’ war,If ye’ll meet me in the morning.’

Hey! Johnny Cope, are ye a-waukin’ yet?Or are your drums a-beating yet?If ye were waukin’ I wad wait,Tae gang tae the coals in the morning.

When Charlie looked the letter upon,He drew his sword the scabbard from‘Come, follow me my merry men,And we’ll meet Johnny Cope in the morning.’

Hey! Johnny Cope, are ye a-waukin’ yet? etc.

‘Now Johnny be as good as your word,Come, let us try baith fire and sword,And dinna flee like a frichted bird,That’s chased frae its nest I’ the morning.’

Hey! Johnny Cope, etc.

When Johnny Cope he heard o’ this,He thocht it wadna be amiss,Tae hae a horse in readiness,For tae flee awa in the morning.

Hey! Johnny Cope, etc.

Fye now, Johnny, get up an’ rin,The Highland bagpipes mak’ a din,It’s best tae sleep in a hale skin,For it will be a bluidie morning.

Hey! Johnny Cope, etc.

When Johnny Cope tae Dunbar cam,They speired at him, ‘Whaur’s a’ your men?’‘The de’il confound me gin I ken,For I left them a’ in the morning.’

Hey! Johnny Cope, etc.

Now Johnny, troth ye werena blate,Tae leave your men in sic a strait,And come wi’ news o’ your ain defeat,Sae early in the morning.

Hey! Johnny Cope, etc.

‘I’ faith,’ quo Johnny, ‘I got sic flegsWi’ their claymores an’ philabegs,Gin I face them again, de’il brak my legs,So I wish you a’ good morning.’

Hey! Johnny Cope, etc.

Logie o’ BuchanOh, Logie o’ Buchan, O Logie the laird, They hae taen awa’ Jamie, that delved in the yaird, Wha played on the pipe, and the viol sae sma’, They hae taen awa’ Jamie, the flower o’ them a. He said ‘Think na lang lassie, tho’ I gang awa’, An’ I’ll come an see ye in spite o’ them a’.’                  Tho’ Sandy has ousen, an’ siller, an’ kye, A house and a haudin’, an’ a’ things forbye; But I wad hae Jamie wi’s bonnet in’s hand, Afore I’d hae Sandy wi’ houses and land.

O think na lang, etc.

 My daddie was sulkie, my minnie was sour,  They gloom’d on my Jamie because he was poor; But daddie and minnie altho’ that they be, They’re nane o’ them a’ like my Jamie to me.

O think na lang, etc.    I sit on my sunkie and spin at my wheel, An’ sing o’ my Jamie wha loes me sae weel; He took a white saxpence and brak it in twa, An’ gae me the hauf o’t when he gaed awa’.

O think na lang, etc.

McPherson’s RantFarewell, ye dungeons dark and strang,Farewell, farewell to thee;McPherson's life will no be longOn yonder gallows tree

Sae rantin’ly, sae wantonlyAnd sae dauntin’ly gaed he’He played a tune and he danced it roon,Below the gallows tree

It was by a woman’s treacherous handThat I was condemned tae dee,Upon a ledge at a window she stood,And a blanket she threw ower me.

Sae rantin’ly, etc.

The Laird o’ Grant that Hieland saunt,That first laid hands on me.He pleads the cause o’ Peter Broon,Tae let MacPherson dee.

Sae rantin’ly, etc.

Untie these bands frae off my handsAnd gie to me my sword,An’ there’s nae a man in a’ ScotlandBut I’ll brave him at a word.

Sae rantin’ly, etc.

There’s some come here for to see me hing,And some to buy my fiddle;But before that I do part wi’ herI’ll break her through the middle

Sae rantin’ly, etc.

He took his fiddle in baith o’ his handsAnd he broke it o’er a stane;Sayin’: ‘There’s nae a ane shall play on theeWhen I am dead and gane.’

Sae rantin’ly, etc.

The reprieve was comin’ o’er the Brig of BanffTo set McPherson free;But they put the clock a quarter beforeAnd they hanged him fae the tree

Sae rantin’ly, etc.

Maggie Lauder

Wha wadna be in love Wi’ bonnie Maggie Lauder ? A piper met her gaun to Fife, And spier’d at what they ca’d her: Richt scornfully she answer’d him, ‘Begone, ye hallanshaker—Jog on your gate, you bladderskate, My name is Maggie Lauder.’

‘Maggie,’ quo’ he, ‘and by my bags, I’m fidgin’ fain to see ye; Sit doun by me, my bonnie bird In troth I wadna steer thee; For I’m a piper to my trade, My name is Rab the Ranter; The lasses loup as they were daft, When I blaw up my chanter.’

‘Piper,’ quo’ Meg, ‘hae ye your bags, And is your drone in order ? If ye be Rob, I’ve heard o’ you ; Ye live upo’ the Border? The lasses a’, baith far and near, Hae heard o’ Rab the Ranter; I’ll shake my foot wi, richt gude will, Gif ye’ll blaw up your chanter.’

Then to his bags he flew wi’ speed, About the drone he twisted, Meg up and wallop’d ower the green, For brawly could she frisk it; ‘Weel done!’ quo’ he, ‘play up!’ quo’ she, ‘Weel bobb’d!’ quo’ Rab the Ranter; ‘It’s worth my while to play, indeed, When I hae sic a dancer!’

‘Weel hae ye play’d your part’ quo’ Meg, Your cheeks are like the crimson! There’s nane in Scotland play’d sae weel, Sin’ we lost Habbie Simpson. I’ve lived in Fife, baith maid and wife, This ten years and a quarter; Gin ye should come to Anster Fair, Spier ye for Maggie Lauder!’

Mairi’s WeddingStep we gaily on we goHeel for heel and toe for toe,Arm in arm and row on rowAll for Mairi’s wedding.

Red her cheeks as rowans are,Bright her eye as any star;Fairest o’ them a’ by farIs our darling Mairi.

Plenty herring, plenty meal,Plenty peat to fill her creelPlenty bonny bairns as weel;That’s the toast for Mairi.

Mary Hamilton

Word is to the kitchen goneAnd word is to the hall,And word is up to Madam the QueenAnd that’s the worst of all,That Mary Hamilton’s born a babe to the highest Stuart of all’

‘Arise, arise, Mary Hamilton,Arise and tell to me,What thou hast done with thy wee babeI saw and heard weep by thee?’

‘I put him in a tiny boat,And cast him out to sea,That he might sink or he might swim,But he’d never come back to me.’

‘Arise, arise, Mary Hamilton,Arise and come with me;There is a wedding in Glasgow townThis night we’ll go and see.’

She put not on her robes of black,Nor yet her robes of brown,But she put on the robes of white,To ride into Glasgow town.

And as she rode into Glasgow town,The city for to see,The bailie’s wife and the provost’s wifeCried, ‘Ach, and alas for thee.’

‘Ah, you need not weep for me,’ she cried‘You need not weep for me;For had I not slain my own wee babeThis death I would not dee.’

‘Ah, little did my mother thinkWhen first she cradled me,The lands I was to travel inAnd the death I was to dee.’

Then by and come the King himself,Looked up with a pitiful eye,Come down, come down, Mary Hamilton,Tonight you’ll dine with me.’

‘Ah, hold your tongue, my sovereign liege,And let your folly be;For if you’d a mind to save my lifeYou’d never have shamed me here.’

‘Cast off, cast off my gown,’ she cried,‘But let my petticoat be,And tie a napkin ’round my face;The gallows I would not see.’

‘Last night I washed the Queen’s feet,And put the gold on her hair,And the only reward I find for this,Is the gallows to be my share.

Last night there were four Maries,Tonight there'll be but three,There was Mary Beaton, and Mary Seaton,And Mary Carmichael, and me.’

M’Ginty’s Meal and AleThis is nae a sang o’ love, na’, nor yet a sang o’ money,Faith it’s naethin’ verra peetifu’, it’s naethin’ verra funny;But there’s Hielan’ Scotch, an’ Lowland Scotch, Butter Scotch an’ honey.If there’s neen o’ them for a’ there’s a mixture o’ the three.An’ there’s nae a word o’ beef, brose, sowens, sauty bannocks, na’,Nor pancakes, pace eggs for them wi’ dainty stammicks;But it’s a’ aboot a meal and ale that happened at Balmannocks,McGinty’s meal and ale, whaur the pig gaed on the spree.  They were howlin’ in the kitchen like a caravan o Tinkies, aye,     And some were playing ping-pong and tiddely-widdely-winkies;     For up the howe an’ doon the howe ye niver saw such jinkies,     As McGinty’s meal and ale, whaur the pig gaed on the spree. Noo McGinty’s pig had broken lowse, an’ wannert tae the lobby,Far he opened shived the pantry door, an’ cam’ upon the toddy;And he took kindly tae the stuff like ony human body,At McGinty’s meal and ale whaur the pig gaed on the spreeMiss McGinty she ran but the hoose, the wey was dark an’ crookit,She gaed heelster gowdie ower the pig, for it she never lookit;And she lat oot a skirl that wad hae paralysed a teuchit,At McGinty’s meal and ale whaur the pig gaed on the spree. Johnnie Murphy he ran efter her, and ower the pig was leapin’Fan he trampit on a ashet that was sittin’ fu o’ dreepin’

An’ he fell doon and peel’t his croon, an’ couldna haud fae greetin’At McGinty’s meal and ale whaur the pig gaed on the spree.An’ the pantry shelf cam’ ricklin’ doon and he was lyin’ kirnin’Amang saft soap, pease meal, corn floor and yirnin’Like a golloch amang treacle but McGinty’s wife was girnin’At the soss upon her pantry fleer and wadna’ lat him be.  They were howlin’ in the kitchen, etc.           

Syne they a’ ran skirlin’ tae the door but fan that it was tuggit,For aye it held the fester, aye the mair they ruggit;Till McGinty roared tae bring an axe, he wadna be humbuggit,Na’ nor lockit in his ain hoose, and that he’d let them see.Sae the wife cam’ trailin’ wi’ an axe, an’ through the bar was hacket,And open flew the door at eence, sae ticht as they were packet,And a’ the crew cam’ rummlin’ oot like tatties fae a bucket,At McGinty’s meal and ale whaur the pig gaed on the spree. They had spurtles, they had tattie chappers, faith they werena jokin’And they swore they’d gar the pig claw whaur he was never yokin’But by this time the lad was fou’ and didna’ care a dockin’At McGinty’s meal and ale whaur the pig went on the spree.Oh! There’s eelie pigs an’ jeelie pigs, an’ pigs for haudin’ butter,Aye but this pig was dottin’ fou’ and rowin’ in the gutter,Till McGinty and his foreman trailed him oot upon a shutter,At McGinty’s meal and ale whaur the pig gaed on the spree. Miss McGinty took the thing tae heart an’ hidit in her closet,An’ they rubbit Johnnie Murphy’s heid wi’ turpentine an’ rosit;Syne they harl’t him wi’ meal and ale, until ye wad supositHe had sleepit in a mason’s trough and risen tae the spree.Oh! it’s weary on the barley bree, an’ weary on the weather,For it’s kirnin’ aboot ’mang dubs an drink, they gang na’ weel thegither;But there’s little doot McGinty’s pig is wishin’ for anither

At McGinty’s meal and ale whaur the pig gaed on the spree.  They were howlin’ in the kitchen, etc.

Mingulay Boat SongHill you ho, boys, let her go, boys,Heave her head round into the weather;Hill you ho, boys, let her go, boys,Sailing homeward to Mingulay

What care we how white the Minch is.What care we for the wind and weather?For we know that every inch isSailing closer to Mingulay.

Wives are waiting at the pierhead,Looking seaward from the heather.Pull her round, boys, and we’ll anchorE’er the sun sets on Mingulay.

Mormond BraesAs I cam’ in by Strichen toon I heard a fair maid mournin’;She was makin’ sair complaintFor her true love ne’er returnin’.

It’s fare ye weel ye Mormond Braes Whaur aftimes I’ve been cheery; Fare ye weel ye Mormond Braes For it’s there I lost my dearie.

There’s mony a mare that’s snapper’d and fa’n An’ risen again fu’ rarely’; Mony a lass has lost her lad    And gotten anither richt early. It’s fare ye weel ye Mormond Braes, etc.

So I’ll pit on my goun o’ greenIt’s a forsaken token;An’ that’ll lat the young men kenThat the bands o’ love are broken. It’s fare ye weel ye Mormond Braes, etc.

An’ I’ll gang doon tae Strichen toon   Where I was bred and born; And I will court anither lad   An’ I’ll mairry him the morn. It’s fare ye weel ye Mormond Braes, etc.

 No More Fish, No Fishermen (c) 1996 I. Sheldon PosenOut along the harbour reachBoats stand dried up on the beachGhost-like in the early dawnEmpty, now the fish are gone.What will become of people now?

Try to build a life somehowHard, hard times are back againNo more fish, no fishermen.

No more shoppers in the storesSince the fish plant closed its doorsMen who walked a trawler's decksNow line up for welfare cheques.There's big ‘For Sale’ signs everywherePockets empty, cupboards bareSee it on the news at tenNo more fish, no fishermen.

Once from Ship Cove to Cape RacePort aux Basques to Harbour GraceNewfoundlanders fished for codOwing merchants, trusting God.They filled their dories twice a dayThey fished their poor sweet lives awayThey could not imagine thenNo more fish, no fishermen.

Back before the Second WarWe could catch our fish inshoreBoats were small and gear was roughWe caught fish, but left enough.And now there's no more fish becauseThe trawler fleets took all there wasWe could see it coming thenNo more fish, no fishermen.

Farewell now to stage and flakeGet out for the children's sakeLeave all friends and kin behindTake whatever job you find.There’s some that say things aren't so blackThey say the fish will all come backWho’ll be here to catch them then?No more fish, no fishermen.Oh brother Sandy, hear ye the news?Oh, brother Sandy, hear ye the news?Lillibulero, bullen a la;An army’s just coming without any shoes,Lillibulero, bullen a la.

To arms, to arms! Brave boys to arms! A true British cause for your courage doth call; Court, Country and City against a banditti, Lillibulero, bullen a la.

The Pope sends us over a bonny young Lad,Lillibulero, bullen a la;Who, to court British favour, wears a Highland plad,Lillibulero, bullen a la. To arms, to arms! etc.

If this shall surprise you there’s news stranger yet;Lillibulero, bullen a la;He brings Highland money to pay British debt,

Lillibulero, bullen a la. To arms, to arms! etc.

You must take it in coin which the country affords,Lillibulero, bullen a la;Instead of broad pieces he pays with broad swords,Lillibulero, bullen a la. To arms, to arms! etc.

A Pair o’ Nicky TamsFan I was only ten year auld, I left the pairish sqweel; My faither fee’d me till the Mains tae chaw his milk and meal; I first pit on my nairra breeks tae hap my spinnle trams, Syne buckled roon my knappin’ knees, a pair o’ Nicky Tams.

It’s first I gaed for baillie loon and syne I gaed on for third, An’ syne, of course, I had tae get the horsemans’ grip an’ wird; A loaf o’ breid tae be my piece an’ a bottle for drinkin’ drams, Bit ye canna gyang thro’ the caffhouse door without yer Nicky Tams.

The fairmer I am wi’ eynoo he’s wealthy, bit he’s mean, Though corn’s cheap, his horse is thin, his harness fairly deen; He gars us load oor cairts owre fu’, his conscience has nae qualms, Bit fan briest-straps brak there’s naething like a pair o’ Nicky Tams.

I’m coortin’ Bonnie Annie noo, Rob Tamson’s kitchie deem; She is five-and-forty an’ I’m but seventeen’ She clorts a muckle piece tae me, wi’ different kinds o’ jam, An’ tells me ilka nicht that she admires my Nicky Tams.

I startit oot, ae Sunday, tae the kirkie for tae gyang;

My collar it wis unco ticht, my breeks wis neen owre lang; I had my Bible in my pooch, likewise my Book o’ Psalms, Fan Annie roared, ‘Ye muckle gype, tak’ aff yer Nicky Tams!’

Though unco sweir, I took them aff, the lassie for tae please; But aye my breeks they lirkit up, a’ roon aboot my knees;

A muckle wasp flew up my leg in the middle o’ the Psalms, Oh niver again will I gang tae the kirk without my Nicky Tams.

I’ve aften thocht I’d like tae be a bobby on the Force; Or maybe I’ll get on the cars, an’ drive a pair o’ horse; Bit fativer it’s my lot tae be, the bobbies or the trams, I’ll ne’er forget the happy days I wore my Nicky Tams.

Pretty Flowers–Abroad for pleasure as I was a walking,All upon a summer summer’s evening clear,(Chorus) Abroad for pleasure as I was a-walking,All upon a summer summer’s evening clear:–’Twas there I beheld a most beautiful damsel,Lamenting for her shepherd dear,(Chorus) ‘Twas there I beheld a most beautiful damsel,Lamenting for her shepherd dear,Lamenting for her shepherd dear.               –The dearest ev’ning that e’er I beheld thee,Was ever ever ever with the lad I adore; (Chorus) The dearest ev’ning that e’er I beheld thee,Was ever ever ever with the lad I adore; –Wilt thou go fight yon French and Spaniards?Wilt thou leave me thus, my dear? (Chorus) Wilt thou go fight yon French and Spaniards?Wilt thou leave me thus, my dear? Wilt thou leave me thus, my dear?              –No more to yon green banks will I take thee,With pleasure for to rest thyself and view the lambs; (Chorus) No more to yon green banks will I take thee,With pleasure for to rest thyself and view the lambs; –But I will take thee to yon green gardens,Where those pretty flowers grow;(Chorus) But I will take thee to yon green gardens,Where those pretty flowers grow:Where those pretty pretty flowers grow.

Puir auld womanIn an attic room in Dundee toon,A puir auld woman spread the tale aroon’;She lived fifty years in a wee top flat,Nae ither company but her auld tom cat. An’ I hope so, an’ I say so, Fifty years in a wee top flat;

Puir auld woman.

One night by the fire she sat gey glum,When what dae ye think cam’ doon her lum?‘Ah’m yer fairy godmither, have nae fear,Tae grant three wishes they’ve sent me here’. An’ I hope so, an’ I say so, ‘Tae grant three wishes they’ve sent me here’; Puir auld woman.

The auld woman looked intae her empty purse,‘I could always use some cash, of course’;The fairy waved her want aroond,Lyin’ on the flair was a thoosand pound. An’ I hope so, an’ I say so, The fairy waved her wand aroond; Puir auld woman.

‘Well, a lovely face and a figure divine,For just one night I wish they were mine;’The fairy said ‘Ah’ll have a go’,Made her look like Brigitte Bardot. An’ I hope so, an’ I say so, The fairy said ‘Ah’ll have a go’, Puir auld woman.

Now this lovely girl by the fire she sat,Turned her attention tae her auld tom cat;‘He’s my only love, so here’s my plan—Tonight make him a handsome man.’ An’ I hope so, an’ I say so, ‘He’s my only love so here’s my plan;’ Puir auld woman.

This handsome man at length drew near,He whispered softly in her ear:‘The night is young, but you’ll regretThe day you sent me to the vet’. An’ I hope so, and I say so, ‘The night is young, but you’ll regret’, Puir auld woman.

Roll Alabama RollWhen the Alabama’s keel was laid, Roll, Alabama, Roll,It was laid in the yards of Jonathan Laird, O roll, Alabama, roll.

It was laid in the yards of Jonathan Laird,It was laid in the town of Birkenhead,

Down Mersey way she sailed then,Liverpool fitted her with guns and men.

From the western isles she sailed forthTo destroy the commerce of the North;

To fight the North, Semmes did employAny method to kill and destroy.

Into Cherbourg port she sailed one dayTo take the count of her prize money

And many a seaman saw his doomWhen Yankee Kearsage hove into view.

A shot from the forward pivot that dayBlew the Alabama’s stern away.

Off the three-mile limit in ’64,The Alabama was seen no more.

Rolling Home Call all hands to man the capstan,See the cable running clear,Heave around and with the wheel boys,For our homeland we will steer.

Rolling home, rolling home, Rolling home across the sea,Rolling home to Caledonia,Rolling home dear land to thee.

Fare ye well ye Spanish ladies,We must bid you all adieu,Happy times we’ve had together,Happy times we spent with you. Rolling home, rolling home, etc.

Round the horn one frosty morning,And our sails were filled with snow,You could hear the shellbacks calling, Heave around and let her go. Rolling home, rolling home, etc.

Now the wake we leave behind us,Seems to know the way we go,There’s a hearty welcome waiting,In the land that we all know. Rolling home, rolling home, etc.

RoseannaOh, Ro-se-anne, sweet Ro-se-anne,Bye bye my Ro-se-an-naI’m goin’ away, but not to stay,And I won’t be home tomorrow.

Bye bye, Bye bye, Bye bye, Bye bye,Bye bye my Ro-se-an-naBye bye, Bye bye, Bye bye, Bye bye,And I won’t be home tomorrow.

I thought I heard the captain say,Bye bye my Ro-se-an-naDon’t you want to go home on your next payday?And I won’t be home tomorrow.

The steamboat’s comin’ round the bend.Bye bye my Ro-se-an-naA-loaded down with fishermen,And I won’t be home tomorrow.

Sweet, Ro-se-anne, my darlin’ childBye bye my Ro-se-an-naI thought I heard my baby sayI won’t be home tomorrow.

The steamboat’s comin’ round the bend.Bye bye my Ro-se-an-naIt’s loaded down with harvest men,I won’t be home tomorrow.

I’m goin’ away, but not to stayBye bye my Ro-se-an-naI’m goin’ away, but not to stayBut I won’t be home tomorrow.

Strangest DreamLast night I had the strangest dreamI ever dreamed beforeI dreamed the world had all agreedTo put an end to war.I dreamed I saw a mighty room The room was filled with men [and women]And the paper they were signing said They’d never fight again.

And when the paper was all signed And a million copies madeThey all joined hands and bowed their headsAnd grateful prayers were prayed.And the people in the streets belowWere dancing round and roundWhile guns and swords and uniformsLay scattered on the ground.

Last night I had the strangest dreamI ever dreamed beforeI dreamed the world had all agreedTo put an end to war.

Surrounded By Water (Dominic Behan)They say that the lakes of Killarney are fair,That no stream like the Liffey can ever compare;If it’s water you want you'll find nothing more rareThan the stuff they make down by the ocean.

The sea, oh the sea is the gradh geal mo croide, Long may it stay between England and me; It’s a sure guarantee that some hour we’ll be free Oh! thank God we’re surrounded by water.

Tom Moore made his waters meet fame and renown,

A great lover of anything dressed in a crown;In brandy the bandy old Saxon he’d drown,But throw ne’er a one into the ocean.

The Scots have their whisky, the Welsh have their speech; And their poets are paid about ten pence a week,Provided no hard words on England they speak,Oh Lord! What a price for devotion!

The Barnyards o’ DelgatyAs I gaed doon by Turra Market,Turra Market for tae fee;I fell in wi’ a farmer chiel,Fae the Barnyards o’ Delgaty.

Lintin addie, toorin addie, Lintin addie toorin ay; Lintin owrin’ lowrin’ lowrin’, The barnyards o' Delgaty.

He promised me the ae best pairThat iver I set my een upon;But when I gat tae the barnyards,There was naethin’ there but skin and bone. Lintin addie, toorin addie, etc.

The auld black horse sat on her rump,The auld grey mare sat on her wime;And for all that I wad whup an’ crack,They wouldna rise at yokin’ time. Lintin addie, toorin addie, etc.

When I gang doon tae Kirk on Sunday,Mony’s the bonny lass I see;Sittin’ by her father’s side,And winkin’ o’er the pews at me. Lintin addie, toorin addie, etc.

Oh I can drink and nae be drunken,I can fecht an’ nae be slain;I can lie wi’ another man’s lassAnd still be welcome tae my ain. Lintin addie, toorin addie, etc.

Lang Jean Scott she maks my bed,Ye’ll see the marks upon my shins;For she’s the coorse ill-trickit jaudThat fills my bed wi’ prickly whins. Lintin addie, toorin addie, etc.

Noo my caun’le is brunt oot,Its lowe is fairly o the wane;Sae fare ye weel ye BarnyardsYe’ll niver catch me here again. Lintin addie, toorin addie, etc.

Birks o’ Abergeldie

Bonnie lassie, will ye go, Will ye go, will ye go; Bonnie lassie, will ye go To the birks o’ Abergeldie?

An’ ye shall get a gown o’ silk, A gown o’ silk, a gown o’ silk; Ye shall get a gown o’ silk And coat o’ calimankie.

Na, kind sir, I dare nae gang I dare nae gang, I dare nae gang; Na, kind sir, I dare nae gang For my mither wad be angry.

Sair, sair wad she flyte, Wad she flyte, wad she flyte; Sair, sair wad she flyte And sair wad she ban me.

The Bleacher Lassie o’ KelvinhaughAs I walked out on a simmer's evenin’,A-walkin’ doun by the Broomielaw;It wis there I spied a fair young lassieWi’ cherrie cheeks an a skin like snaw.

Says I, ‘My lassie, is it you that wandersOot a’ alane by the Broomielaw?’‘O, indeed, kind sir, it’s the truth I’ll tell yeI’m the bleacher lassie o’ Kelvinhaugh.’

‘O lassie, lassie, will ye gang wi’ meAn’ I’ll claith ye up a’ in fine satins braw?’‘O indeed, kind sir, I maun plainly tell yeI’ve a lad o’ my ain an he’s far awa’.’

‘It’s seven lang years since I lo’oed a sailorIt’s seven lang years sin’ he’s gaed awa;But anither twice seven I wad wait upon himAn’ I’ll bleach my claes here in Kelvinhaugh.’

‘O lassie, lassie, ye hae been faithfu’,An’ thocht on me whan that I was awa’; Twa herts will surely be rewarditWe’ll pairt nae mair here on Kelvinhaugh.’

It’s noo this couple, they hae got mairrietAn’ they keep an alehoose atween them twa;An the sailor laddies they a’ gang drinkin’At the bleacher lassie’s o’ Kelvinhaugh.

The Bonnie Earl of MorayYe Hielands an’ ye LowlandsO, whaur hae ye been?They hae slain the Earl o’ MorayAnd laid him on the green;

He was a braw gallantAnd he rode at the ring,An’ the bonnie Earl of MorayO, he micht hae been the king.O, lang may his ladyLook frae the castle DouneEre she see the Earl o’ MorayCome soundin’ through the toun.

Now wae be to thee, HuntlyAnd wherefore did ye sae?I bade you bring him wi’ youBut forbade ye him to slay.He was a braw gallantAnd he play’d at the ba’,An’ the Bonnie Earl o’ MorayWas the flower amang them a’.Lang may his ladyLook frae the Castle DouneEre she see the Earl o’ MorayCome soundin’ through the toun.

Bonnie Lass of FyvieThere once was a troop of Irish dragoonsCome marching down through Fyvie-o;And the captain fell in love with a very bonnie lassAnd her name it was called was pretty Peggy-o.

There’s mony a bonnie lass in the howe o’ Auchterless,There’s mony a bonnie lass in the Garioch-o;There’s mony a bonnie Jean in the toon o’ AberdeenBut the flower of them a’ lives in Fyvie-o.

O come down the stairs, Pretty Peggy, my dear,Come down the stairs, Pretty Peggy-o;Come down the stairs, tie up your yellow hairBid a last fareweel to your mammy-o.

It's braw, oh it’s braw, a captain’s lady for to be; It’s braw to be a captain’s lady-o; It’s braw to rant and rove and follow at his word, And to ride when your captain he is ready-o.

I never did intend a soldier’s lady for to be,A soldier shall never enjoy me-o;I never did intend to gang till a foreign landAnd I will never marry a soldier-o.

‘Mount’, cries the colonel, ‘mount, boys, mount’.‘Tarry’, says our captain, ‘oh tarry-o;‘O tarry for a while, for anither day or twa’,Till we see if this bonnie lass will marry-o’.

Twas in the early morning, when we marched awa,And oh but our captain he was sorry-o.The drums they did beat ow’re the bonny braes o’ Gight, And the pipes played The Lowlands o’ Fyvie-o.

Long ere we came to bonnie Ellon toon, Our captain we had to carry-o; And long ere we won to the streets of Aberdeen Our captain we had for to bury-o.

Green grow the birks on bonnie Ythanside, And low lie the lowlands of Fyvie-o;The captain's name was Ned and he died for a maid,He died for the bonny lass of Fyvie-o.

The Broom o’ the CowdenknowesO the broom, the bonnie bonnie broom, The broom o’ the Cowdenknowes;And aye sae sweet the bonnie lassie sang, I’ the ewe bucht milking her yowes, her yowesI' the ewe bucht milking her yowes.

The lassie sang ower a’ the hills, And sae sweet a voice had she,She caught the ear o’ a gentleman, As he cam’ ridin’ by, by,As he cam’ ridin’ by.

He’s ta’en his leave o’ a’ his men, And doon to the bucht rode he,Said ‘Misty, misty is the nicht, Will ye show us the way, wayWill ye show us the way?’

‘O, ye hae plenty o’ men,’ she said, ‘That work for meat and fee;I dinna think that I’d be safe To guide ye on the way, the wayTo guide ye on the way.’

‘For I ken ye by the claes ye wear, An’ by your blinkin’ e’e,That ye are the laird o’ Lochnagar, And so ye seem to be, to beAnd se ye seem to be..

‘I’m nae the laird o’ Lochnagar, I never expect to be,For I am but ane o’ his best men, I ride in his company–yI ride in his company.’

‘ But I ken ye by your middle sae sma’, And by your grass-green sleeve,That ye are the lass o’ the Cowdenknowes, And so you seem to be, to beAnd so ye seem to be.

‘It’s I’m nae the lass o’ the Cowdenknowes, It’s nae her that ye see,For I am but ane o’ her faither’s maids, And aye will ever be, be

And aye will ever be.’

He’s catched her by the lily white hand, Below the grass-green sleeve,And laid her on the mossy bank, And speired na’ for her leave, leaveAnd speired na’ for her leave.

Then he’s ta’en oot a hantle o’ gowd, And kaimed her yellow hair,Says ‘Here’s your fee, ye weel-faur’d maid,Frae me ye’ll no’ get mair, mair,Frae me ye’ll no get mair.’

He’s lowped on to his milk-white steed, And after his men did gang,And ane o’ them cried oot to him, ‘O Master ye’ve tarried lang, langO Master, ye’ve tarried lang.’

‘I hae bin east, I hae bin west, And I’ve bin among the knowes;But the bonniest lass that ere I saw, Was milkin’ her faither’s yowes, yowesWas milkin’ her faither’s yowes.

She set the cog upon her heid And she's gone liltin’ hame;‘O whaur hae ye bin, my ane dochter? It’s ye hae tarried lang, lang, It’s ye hae tarried lang.’

‘O wae be tae yer yoweherd man, And an ill death may he dee;He’s biggit the ewe-buchts sae far awa’ And they’ve trysted a man to me, to meThey’ve trysted a man to me.’

When fifteen weeks was come and gone, Sae pale and wan grew she,She began to sigh and long For his bonnie, blinkin’ e’e e’e,His bonnie blinkin’ e’e.

It fell on a day, a bonnie simmer day, She was ca’in’ her faither's kye;There cam’ a troop o' gentlemen And they were a-riding by, byAnd they were riding by.

He’s ta’en the leave o’ a’ his men, And to the lass gaed he;Says ‘Wha’s the faither o’ that bairn, That bairn that gangs wi’ thee, wi’ thee,That bairn that gangs wi’ thee?’

She’s turned awa’ and hung her heid, For she thocht muckle shame;But ne’er a word could that bonnie lassie say,

But ‘The bairn’s faither’s at hame, at hame,The bairn’s faither’s at hame.’

‘Ye lee, ye lee, ye bonnie lass, Sae loud’s I hear ye lee;For dinna ye mind that misty night Ye were in the ewe-buchts wi’ me, wi’ me,You were in the ewe-buchts wi’ me.

Then he’s ca’ed ane o’ his best men, To come and set her on;‘Ye may ca’ your kye yoursel’ goodman, But she’ll never ca’ them again, again,No she’ll never ca’ them again.

For I am the laird of Lochnagar, I’ve thirty ploughs and threeAnd I hae chose the bonniest lass, In a’ the North countrie, countrieIn a’ the North countrie.

The CrocodileA famous Scotch Professor was a-walking by the Nile,

O tempora! O mores!When from the muddy waters crept a beastly crocodile,

O tempora! O mores!It gaped for to devour him, plaid, philabeg an’ a’O tempo-tempora! Juch-heirassasasa!We praise thee now and evermore, Dame Musica!

He shriek’d ‘ho moi psu psu popoi’ then forth a bagpipe drew,

O . . .And on that noble instrument sweet Gaelic tunes he blew.

O . . .Allegro, dolce, presto, - oh, how he did them blaw!

O tempo-tempora . . .We praise . . .

And at the first melodious howl that from the bag did go,

O . . .The ugly brute began to trip the light fantastic toe,

O . . .Jig, reel, and waltz, and polka, and Highland fling an’ a’.

O tempo-tempora . . . We praise . . .

It gnashed its teeth, and hopp’d and skipped the sandy plain aroun’,

O . . .Till wi’ its waggling tail it knocked a lot o’ pyramids doun,

O . . .

For they have lang been rickety, wi’ mummies, banes an’ a’,

O tempo-tempora . . .We praise . . .

And when he saw the pyramids had squashed the crocodill,

O . . .He turned into the nearest pub, his inner man to fill,

O . . .He sipped and quaffed Nile water, an’ whisky, beer, an’ a’

O tempo-tempora . . .We praise . . .All genuine Scotch Professors like fish their liquor swill,

O tempora! O mores!If this one has not ceased to drink, maybe he’s drinking still;

O tempora! O mores!And all good men they drink with him, Greek, Teuton, Celt,an’ a’!

O tempo-tempora! Juch-heirassasasa!We praise thee now and evermore, Dame Musica!

The D-Day DodgersWe’re the D-Day Dodgers, out in Italy—Always on the vino, always on the spree. 8th Army scroungers with our tanks, We live in Rome among the Yanks,We are the D-Day Dodgers, way out in Italy.

We landed at Salerno, a holiday with pay;The Jerries brought the bands out to greet us on the way… Showed us the sights and gave us tea, We all sang songs—the beer was free,To welcome D-Day Dodgers, way out in Italy.

Naples and Cassino were taken in our stride,We didn’t go to fight there—we went there for the ride. Anzio and Sangro were just names, We only went to look for dames—We are the D-Day Dodgers, way out in Italy.

On the way to Florence we had a lovely time,We ran a bus to Rimini right through the Gothic Line, Soon to Bologna we will go And after that we’ll cross the Po,We’ll still be D-Day dodging, way out in Italy.

Dear old Lady Astor, you think you know a lot,Standing on a platform and talking tommy-rot, You, England’s sweetheart and her pride We think your mouth’s too bloody wideThat’s from the D-Day Dodgers, in sunny Italy.

Look around the mountains, in the mud and rain—You’ll find the scattered crosses, and some which bear no name; Heartbreak and toil and suffering gone, The boys beneath them slumber on,These are the D-Day Dodgers who’ll stay in Italy.

The Day we went to RothesayAe Hogmany at Glesca Fair, There was me, mysel’ and several mair, We a’ went off to hae a tear An’ spend the nicht in Rothesay o. We wandered doon the Broomielaw, Thro’ wind an’ rain an’ sleet an’ snaw, And at forty minutes after twa, We wan the length o’ Rothesay, o.

Durrum a doo a dum a day, Durrum a doo a daddy o, Durrum a doo a dum a day, The day we went to Rothesay, o. In search of lodgins we did slide, To find a place where we could bide; There was eighty-twa o’ us inside In a single end in Rothesay, o. We a’ laid doon to tak’ our ease, When somebody happened for to sneeze; And he wakened half a million fleas In a single end in Rothesay, o. Durrum a doo a dum a day, etc.There were several different kinds o’ bugs, An’ some had feet like spaniel dugs, And they sat on their airse and they cockit their lugs, And they cried ‘Hurrah for Rothesay, o!’ ‘An’ noo,’ says I, ‘we’ll have to ’lope’ So we went and jined the Band o’ Hope, But the polis wouldna let us stop Anither nicht in Rothesay, o. Durrum a doo a dum a day, etc.

The Gallant Forty-TwaWeel it’s s noo I am a sodger, and they ca’ me Jakie Broon,I used to be a weaver, and I bade in Maxweltoon,But noo I’ve jined the airmy, and to Perth I’m gaun awa’, For to join the Heiland Regiment, the gallant Forty-Twa.

You may talk aboot your First Royals, your Scottish Fusiliers, Your Aberdeen Militia, and your dandy Volunteers, Your Seaforth’s wi’ their streekit kilts; an’ the Gordons big and braw;

But gae bring to me the tartan o’ the gallant Forty- Twa.

Noo, the very first day upon parade amang a lot o’ raw recruits,The sergeant he’s aye after me looking at my boots,He tapped me on the shoulder, and says, Jock you come awa,’For I think you'll make a helluva mess o’ the gallantForty-Twa.’

When we were on manoeuvres, the sergeant says to me:‘Gang oot aboot, and scoot about, and see whit ye can see;If ye keep yer heid aye bobbin’ up, ye’ll gie us a’ awa’,For ye have the biggest napper in the gallant Forty-Twa.’

Noo, when the bugle sounded and dinner time cam’ on,I was the first man at the table, and in my hand a spoon,Up cam’ the orderly officer and he turned his heid awa’,‘Man, ye are the biggest glutton in the gallant Forty-Twa.’

Weel, it’s noo I am on furlough, to Dundee I will gang,And  I will show my comrades it’s how to handle a gun;I’ll tak’ them in and stand a treat and when I start to blaw,Ye wad think I was fu’ colonel o’ the gallant Forty-Twa.

The 51st Highland Division’s Farewell to SicilyThe pipie is dozie, the pipie is fey,He winna come roun’ for his vino the day.The sky ow’r Messina is unco an’ gray An’ a’ the bricht chaumers are eerie

Then fare weel ye banks o’ Sicily,Fare ye weel ye valley an’ shaw.There’s nae Jock will mourn the kyles o’ ye, Puir bliddy swaddies are wearie.

Fare weel, ye banks o’ Sicily,Fare ye weill ye valley an shaw,There’s nae hame can smoor the wiles o’ ye, Puir bliddy swaddies are wearie.

Then doon the stair and line the waterside,Wait yer turn, the ferry’s awa’.Then doon the stair an line the waterside, A’ the bricht chaumers are eerie.

The drummie is polished, the drummie is brawHe cannae be seen for his webbin’ ava.He’s beezed himsel’ up for a photy an a’ Tae leave wi his Lola, his dearie.

Sae fare weel ye dives o’ Sicily(Fare ye weel, ye sheiling an’ ha’),We’ll a’ mind shebeens an’ bothies Whaur kind signorinas were cheerie

Fare weel, ye banks o’ Sicily(Fare ye weel, ye sheiling an’ ha’);We’ll a’ mind shebeens an bothies Whaur Jock made a date wi’ his dearie.Then tune the pipes and drub the tenor drum(Leave your kit this side o’ the wa’).Then tune the pipes and drub the tenor drum A’ the bricht chaumers are eerie.

The Jute Mill SongOh dear me, the mill’s gaun fast;And we puir shifters canna get our rest;Shiftin’ bobbins coorse and fine.They fairly make ye work for your ten and nine.

O dear me, I wish the day were done;Runnin’ up and doon the paths in nae funShiftin’, piecin’, spinnin’—warp, weft and twineThere’s nae much pleesure livin’ offen ten and nine.

Oh dear me, the world is ill-dividedThem that works the hardest are the least provided;I maun work the harder dark days and fineTo feed and clathe my bairnies offen ten and nine.

The Laird o’ CockpenThe Laird o’ Cockpen, he’s proud and he’s great,His mind is ta’en up wi’ the things o’ the state;He wanted a wife his braw house to keep,But favour wi’ wooin’ was fashious to seek.

Doon by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,At his table head he thocht she’d look well,MacClish’s ae daughter o’ Clavers-ha’ Lee,A penniless lass wi’ a lang pedigree.

His wig was weel pouther’d and as gude as new,His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue;He put on a ring, a sword, and cock’d hat,And wha could refuse the laird wi’ a’ that?

He took the grey mare, and rade cannily,An’ rapp’d at the yett o’ Clavers-ha’ Lee;‘Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben,–She’s wanted to speak wi’ the Laird o’ Cockpen.’

Mistress Jean she was makin’ the elder-flower wine;‘An’ what brings the laird at sic a like time?’She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown,Her mutch wi’red ribbons, an gaed awa’ down.

An’ when she cam’ ben he bowed fu’ low,An’ what was his errand he soon let her know;Amazed was the laird, when the lady said, ‘Na!’And wi’ a laigh curtsie she tuned awa’.

Dumbfounder’d was he, but nae sigh did he gie,He mounted his mare and he rade cannily;An’ aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen,She’s daft to refuse the laird o’ Cockpen.’

The Lass of Patie’s MillThe lass of Patie’s Mill,So bonnie, blithe, and gay,In spite of all my skillHath stole my heart away.When tedding of the hay,Bare-headed on the green,Love ‘midst her locks did play,And wanton’d in her e’en.

Without the help of art,Like flow’rs which grace the wild,She did her sweets impart,Whene’er she spoke or smiled.Her looks they were so mild,Free from affected pride,She me to love beguiled;I wish’d her for my bride.

O! had I all the wealthHopetoun’s high mountains fill;Insured long life and health,And pleasure at my will;I’d promise and fulfilThat none but bonnie she,The lass of Patie’s mill,Should share the same with me.

The Lum Hat Wantin’ the CroonThe burn was big wi’ spate, An’ there cam’ tum’lin’ doon, Tapsalterie the half o’ a gate, Wi’ an auld fish-hake an’ a great muckle skate, An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon.

The auld wife stude on the bank As they gaed swirlin’ roun’, She took a gude look an’ syne says she: ‘There’s food an’ there’s firin’ gaun to the sea, An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon.’

Sae she gruppit the branch o’ a saugh, An’ she kickit off ane o’ her shoon, An’ she stuck oot her fit–but it caught in the gate, An’ awa she went wi’ the great muckle skate, An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon.

She floated fu’ many a mile, Past cottage an’ village an’ toon, She’d an awfu’ time astride o’ the gate, Though it seemed to gree fine wi’ the great muckle skate, An’ the lum hat wantin’ the croon.

A fisher was walkin’ the deck, By the licht o’ his pipe an’ the mune, When he sees an auld body astride o’ a gate, Come bobbin’ along in the waves wi’ a skate, An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon.

‘There’s a man overboard!’ cries he, ‘Ye leear!’ says she, ‘Man, I’ll droon! A man on a boord? It’s a wife on a gate, It’s auld Mistress Mackintosh here wi’ a skate, An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon.’

Was she nippit to death at the Pole? Has India bakit her broon? I canna tell that, but whatever her fate, I’ll wager ye’ll find it was shared by a gate, An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon.

There’s a moral attached tae my sang, On greed ye should aye gie a froon, When ye think o’ the wife that was lost for a gate, An auld fish-hake an’ a great muckle skate, An’ a lum hat wantin’ the croon.

The Road and the Miles to DundeeCauld winter was howlin’ o’er moor and o’er mountain, And wild was the surge of the dark rolling sea, When I met about daybreak a bonnie young lassie, Wha asked me the road and the miles to Dundee.

Says I, ‘My young lassie, I canna’ weel tell ye The road and the distance I canna’ weel gie. But if you'll permit me tae gang a wee bittie, I’ll show ye the road and the miles to Dundee’.

At once she consented and gave me her arm, Ne’er a word did I speir wha the lassie micht be,

She appeared like an angel in feature and form, As she walked by my side on the road to Dundee.

At length wi’ the Howe o' Strathmartine behind us, The spires o’ the toon in full view we could see, She said ‘Gentle Sir, I can never forget ye For showing me sae far on the road to Dundee’.

I took the gowd pin from the scarf on my bosom– Says I ‘Keep ye this in remembrance o’ me;’ Then bravely I kissed the sweet lips o’ the lassie, E’er I parted wi’ her on the road to Dundee.

So here’s to the lassie, I ne’er can forget her, And ilka young laddie that’s listenin’ to me, O never be sweer to convoy a young lassie Though it’s only to show her the road to Dundee.

The sons of the prophet were hardy and boldThe sons of the prophet were hardy and bold,And quite unaccustomed to fear,But the bravest of these was a man, I am toldNamed Abdul Abulbul Amir.

This son of the desert, in battle aroused,Could spit twenty men on his spear.A terrible creature, both sober and sousedWas Abdul Abulbul Amir.

When they needed a man to encourage the van,Or harass the foe from the rear,Or to storm a redoubt, they had only to shoutFor Abdul Abulbul Amir.

There were heroes aplenty and men known to fameIn the troops that were led by the Czar;But the bravest of these was a man by the nameOf Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.

He could imitate Irving, play Euchre and poolAnd perform on the Spanish Guitar.In fact, quite the cream of the Muscovite teamWas Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.

The ladies all loved him, his rivals were few;He could drink them all under the bar.As gallant or tank, there was no one to rankWith Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.

One day this bold Russian had shouldered his gunAnd donned his most truculent sneer;Downtown he did go, where he trod on the toeOf Abdul Abulbul Amir.

‘Young man’ quoth Bulbul, ‘has life grown so dull,That you’re anxious to end your career?Vile infidel! Know, you have trod on the toeOf Abdul Abulbul Amir.’

‘So take your last look at the sunshine and brookAnd send your regrets to the Czar;By this I imply you are going to die,Mr. Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.’

Quoth Ivan, ‘My friend, your remarks, in the end,Will avail you but little, I fear,For you ne’er will survive to repeat them alive,Mr. Abdul Abulbul Amir!’

Then this bold mameluke drew his trusty chibouqueWith a cry of ‘Allah Akbar!’And with murderous intent, he ferociously wentFor Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.

Then they parried and thrust and they side-stepped and cussed’Till their blood would have filled a great pot.The philologist blokes, who seldom crack jokes,Say that hash was first made on that spot.

They fought all that night, ’neath the pale yellow moon;The din, it was heard from afar;And great multitudes came, so great was the fameof Abdul and Ivan Skivar.

As Abdul’s long knife was extracting the life -In fact, he was shouting ‘Huzzah!’ - -He felt himself struck by that wily Kalmuck,Count Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.

The sultan drove by in his red-breasted fly,Expecting the victor to cheer;But he only drew nigh to hear the last sighOf Abdul Abulbul Amir.

Czar Petrovich, too, in his spectacles blueRode up in his new crested car.He arrived just in time to exchange a last lineWith Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.

A loud-sounding splash from the Danube was heardResounding o’er meadows afar;It came from the sack fitting close to the backOf Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.

There’s a tomb rises up where the blue Danube flows;Engraved there in characters clear;‘Ah stranger, when passing, please pray for the soulOf Abdul Abulbul Amir.’

A Muscovite maiden her lone vigil keeps,’Neath the light of the pale polar star;And the name that she murmurs as oft as she weepsIs Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.

The Soor Mulk CairtOh, I am a country chappie, an I’m serving at Polnoon,A wee bit fairm near Eaglesham, that fine auld-fashioned toon,Whaur in the mornin early, a little efter threeWe tak the road richt merrily, ma auld black horse and me.  Wi’ her cheeks red as roses an her e’en sae bonnie blue, Glancin’, entrancin’, they pierced me through and through, She fairly won ma fancy an she stole awa ma hert, Drivin’ intae Glesga in ma soor mulk cairt. The other mornin early, as the Barlin I did passI happened tae foregaither wi’ fair young country lass.Says I ‘Ma bonnie lassie, if ye’re gangin’ ower that airtA’ll drive ye intae Glasga in ma soor mulk cairt.’  Wi’ her cheeks red as roses, etc.

I raised her up beside me an we soon got on the crack,An wi’ a smile she telt me that her name was Maggy Watt;I telt the auld auld story while the woods around us rangWi’ the whistlin’ o’ the mavis an’ the blackbird’s cheery sang.  Wi’ her cheeks red as roses, etc.

I’ve heard o lords an ladies making love in shady bowers,An how they woo’d an won amang the roses an the flowers;But I’ll ne’er forget the mornin’ little Cupid threw his dartDrivin’ doon tae Glasga in the soor mulk cairt.

Wi’ her cheeks red as roses, etc.

The Star o’ Rabbie BurnsThere is a star whose beaming ray Is shed on ev’ry clime. It shines by night, it shines by day And ne’er grows dim wi’ time. It rose upon the banks of Ayr, It shone on Doon’s clear stream - A hundred years are gane and mair, Yet brighter grows its beam.

Let kings and courtiers rise and fa’, This world has mony turns

But brightly beams aboon them a’ The star o’ Rabbie Burns.

Though he was but a ploughman lad And wore the hodden grey, Auld Scotland’s sweetest bards were bred Aneath a roof o’ strae. To sweep the strings o’ Scotia's lyre, It needs nae classic lore; But mither wit an’ native fire That warms the bosom’s core. Let kings and courtiers rise and fa’, etc.

The Twa CorbiesAs I was walking all alane,I heard twa corbies makin’ a mane;The tane unto the ither say,‘Whar sall we gang and dine the-day?’

‘In ahint yon auld fail dyke,I wot there lies a new slain knight;And nane do ken that he lies there,But his hawk, his hound an his lady fair.’

‘His hound is tae the huntin’ gane,His hawk tae fetch the wild-fowl hame,His lady’s taen anither mate,So we may mak’ oor dinner sweet.

‘Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,And I’ll pike oot his bonny blue een;Wi ae lock o his gowden hairWe’ll theek oor nest whan it grows bare.’

‘Mony a ane for him makes mane,But nane sall ken whar he is gane;Through his white banes, whan they are bare,The wind sall blaw for evermair.’

The Wee Magic StaneOh the Dean o’ Westminster’s a powerful man,He hauds a’ the strings o’ the state in his hand;But a’ this great business it bothered him nane,Till some rascal ran aff wi’ his wee magic stane. Wi’ a too-ra-li, oor-a-li, oor-a-li-ay.

Noo the stane had great pow’rs that could dae such a thingAnd withoot it, it seemed, we’d be wantin’ a king,So he ca’d in the polis and gave this decree–‘Gae an’ hunt oot the Stane and return it tae me.’ Wi’ a too-ra-li, etc.

So the polis went beetlin’ up tae the NorthThey huntit the Clyde and they huntit the Forth, But the wild folk up yonder jist kiddit them a’Fur they didnae believe it wis magic at a’. Wi’ a too-ra-li, etc.

Noo the Provost o’ Glesga, Sir Victor by name,Was awfy pit oot when he heard o’ the Stane,So he offered the statues that staun in the Square That the high churches’ masons might mak’ a few mair. Wi’ a too-ra-li, etc.

When the Dean o’ Westminster wi’ this was acquaint,He sent for Sir Victor and made him a saint,‘Now it’s no use you sending your statues down heah’ Said the Dean, ‘But you’ve given me a first rate ideah.’ Wi’ a too-ra-li, etc.

So he quarried a stane o’ the very same stuffAn’ he dressed it a’ up till it looked like enough,Then he sent for the Press and announced that the StaneHad been found and returned to Westminster again. Wi’ a too-ra-li, etc.

When the reivers fun’ oot what Westminster had done, They went aboot diggin’ up stanes by the ton,And fur each wan they feenished they entered the claimThat this was the true and original stane. Wi’ a too-ra-li, etc.

Noo the best o’ the joke still remains tae be tellt,Fur the bloke that was turnin’ them aff on the belt,At the peak o’ production was sae sairly pressed,That the real yin got bunged in alang wi’ the rest. Wi’ a too-ra-li, etc.

So if ever ye come on a stane wi’ a ringJist sit yersel’ doon an’ proclaim yersel King,Fur there’s nane wud be able to challenge yir claimThat ye croont yersel King on the Destiny Stane. Wi’ a too-ra-li, etc.

The Work of the WeaversWe’re all met togither here tae sit and tae crackWi’ oor glasses in oor hands and oor work upon oor back;There’s nae a trade among ’em a’ could either mend or mak’If it wisna for the wark o’ the weavers.

Gin it wisnae for the weavers, what would we do? We wadnae hae claith made o’ our ’oo; We wadnae hae a coat neither black nor blue Gin it wisnae for the work of the weavers.

Now the hireman chiels they mock us and crack aye abootThey say that we are thin-faced, bleached like cloots,And yet for a’ their mockery they canna dae without’s,Na they winna want the wark o’ the weavers. Gin it wisnae for the weavers, etc.

There’s them that’s independent o’ither tradesmen’s work,The women need nae barber, the dykers need nae clerk,But nane o’ them can dae wi’oot a coat or a sarkAye they a’ need the wark o’ the weavers. Gin it wisnae for the weavers, etc.

Nor oor joiners and oor slaters, oor glaziers and a’ Oor doctors and oor ministers and them that live by lawAnd our friends in Sooth Americay, though them we never sawBut we ken they wear the work of the weavers. Gin it wisnae for the weavers, etc.

Oor sodgers and oor sailors, we ken they’re a’ bold,But, faith, if they had nae claes they couldnae fecht for coldThe high and low, the rich and poor, a’body young or oldAye they a’ wear the wark o’ the weavers. Gin it wisnae for the weavers, etc.

Noo weavin' is a trade that never can failAs lang as we need clothes for to keep a body haleSae let us a’ be merry o'er a bicker of good aleAnd drink tae the health of the weavers. Gin it wisnae for the weavers, etc.

The Yellow Haired LaddieThe yellow-hair’d laddie sat down on yon brae, Cries, ‘Milk the ewes, lassie, let nane of them gae.’ And aye as she milked, and aye as she sang: ‘The yellow-hair’d laddie shall be my gudeman.’ And aye as she milked, &c.

The weather is cauld, and my claithing is thin, The ewes are new clipped, they winna bught in: They winna bught in altho’ I should die, O yellow-hair’d laddie, be ye gude to me. They winna bught in, &c.

The goodwife cries but the house, ‘Jenny, come ben, The cheese is to mak’, and the butter’s to kirn;’ Tho’ butter, and cheese, and a’ should gae sour, I’ll kiss wi’ my lover for e’en half an hour: If we mak’ it a half-hour, we’s e’en mak’ it three, For the yellow-hair’d laddie my gudeman shall be.

Three CrawsThree craws sat upon a wa’,Sat upon a wa’,Sat upon a wa’,Three craws sat upon a wa’On a cold and frosty morning.

The first craw up and flew awa’,Up and flew awa’,Up and flew awa’,The first craw up and flew awa’,On a cold and frosty morning.

The second craw fell and broke his jaw,Fell and broke his jaw,Fell and broke his jaw;The second craw fell and broke his jaw,On a cold and frosty morning.

The third craw was greetin’ for his maw,Was greetin’ for his maw,Was greetin’ for his maw;The third craw was greetin’ for his maw,On a cold and frosty morning.

The fourth craw wasna’ there at a’,Wasna’ there at a’,Wasna’ there at a’;The fourth craw wasna’ there at a’,On a cold and frosty morning.

To the Beggin’ I Will GoIf the beggin’ be as good a trade As I have heard them say,It’s time that I was on the road And joggin’ doon the brae;To the beggin’ I will go, will go, To the beggin’ I will go.

Afore that I do gang awa’ I’ll let my hair grow lang,I will not pare my nails at a’ For the beggars wear them lang,To the beggin’ I will go, will go, To the beggin’ I will go.

I’ll gang to the tailors, They call him Arnie Gray;I’ll gar him mak’ a coat to me That will help me night and day,To the beggin’ I will go, will go, To the beggin’ I will go.

And if there be a weddin’ And me chance to be there;I’ll rise amang the weddin’ folk

And bless the happy pair,To the beggin’ I will go, will go, To the beggin’ I will go.

It’s some’ll gie me beef and breid, And some’ll gie me cheese,And out amang the weddin’ folk I’ll gather up bawbees,To the beggin’ I will go, will go, To the beggin’ I will go.

Gin I come on as I wid like It’s I’ll come back and tell;But gin the trade gaes backlins, I’ll keep it to mysel',To the beggin’ I will go, will go, To the beggin’ I will go.

Tramps and HawkersOh come a’ ye tramps an’ hawker lads an’ gaitherers o’ blaw;That tramps the country roon an’ roon, come listen ane an’ a:I’ll tell to you a rovin’ tale o’ the sichts that I hae seen,It’s far into the snowy North an’ south by Gretna Green.

Aftimes I’ve laughed until mysel’ when traivlin’ on the road,Wi’ twa rags roon’ my twisted feet; my face as broon’s a tod;Wi’ lumps o’ cake an’ tattie scones, wi’ cheese an’ braxie ham,Ne’er giein’ a thocht tae whaur I’ve been, nor less to whaur I’m gaun. I’ve done my share o’ humpin’ wi’ the dockers on the Clyde;I helped the Buckie trawlers haul their herrin’ ower the side;I helped tae build the michty bridge that spans the river Forth,An’ wi’ many an Angus fairmer’s rig I’ve ploo’d the bonny earth.

I’m happy in the simmertime beneath the bricht blue sky;Nae thinkin’ in the mornin’ whaur at nicht I’ll hae tae lie;In barn or byre or onywhaur lyin’ oot amang the hay,An’ if the weather treats me right, I’m happy every day.

I think I’ll gang tae Paddy’s land, I’m makin’ up my mind;For Scotland’s greatly altered noo, I canna raise the wind;

But I will trust in Providence gin Providence proves true,An’ I’ll sing to ye o’ Erin’s Isle when I come back tae you.

Oh come a’ ye tramps an’ hawker lads an’ gaitherers o’ blaw;That tramps the country roon an’ roon, come listen ane an’ a:I’ll tell to you a rovin’ tale o’ the sichts that I hae seen,It’s far into the snowy North an’ south by Gretna Green.

Tullochgorum     Come, gie’s a sang, Montgomery cry’d, And lay your disputes all aside, What signifies’t for folks to chide O’er what was done before them. Let whig and tory a’ agree, Whig and tory, whig and tory, Whig and tory a’ agree To drop their whigmigmorum; Let whig and tory a’ agree To spend the night wi’ mirth and glee, And cheerfu’ sing alang wi’ me The Reel o’ Tullochgorum.

Tullochgorum is my delight, It gars us a’ in ane unite, And ony sumph that keeps up spite, In conscience I abhor him. It’s blythe and cheerie be’se we a’, Blythe and cheerie, blythe and cheerie, Blythe and cheerie be’se we a’, And make a happy quorum. It’s blythe and cheerie be’se we a’ As lang as we hae breath to draw, And dance till we be like to fa’ The Reel o’ Tullochgorum.

What needs there mak’ sae great a fraise, Wi’ dringing, dull Italian lays, I wadna gie our ain Strathspeys For half a hunder score o’ them; They’re dowf and dowie at the best, Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie, Dowf and dowie at the best, Wi’ a’ their variorum. They’re dowf and dowie at the best, Their allegros and a’ the rest, They canna please a Scottish taste Compar’d wi’ Tullochgorum.

Let wardly minds themselves oppress Wi’ fears o’ want and double cess, And sullen sots themsells distress Wi’ keeping up decorum; Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,

Sour and sulky, sour and sulky, Sour and sulky shall we sit Like auld philosophorum? Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Wi’ neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit, Nor ever try to shak’ a fit To the Reel o’ Tullochgorum?

May choicest blessings aye attend Each honest, open-hearted friend, And calm and quiet be his end, And a’ that’s good watch o’er him; May peace and plenty be his lot, Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, Peace and plenty be his lot, And dainties a great store o’ them; May peace and plenty be his lot, Unstain’d by any vicious blot, And may he never want a groat, That’s fond of Tullochgorum.

But for the sullen, frumpish fool, That loves to be oppression’s tool, May envy gnaw his rotten soul, And discontent devour him; May dool and sorrow be his chance, Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow, Dool and sorrow be his chance, And nane say, Wae’s me for him! May dool and sorrow be his chance And a’ the ills that come frae France, Wha e’er he be that winna dance The Reel o’ Tullochgorum.

Twa Recruiting SergeantsTwa recruiting sergeants came frae the Black Watch Tae markets and fairs, some recruits for tae catch. But a’ that they 'listed was forty and twa: So list bonnie laddie an’ come awa.

And it’s over the mountain and over the main, Through Gibraltar, to France and Spain. Get a feather tae your bonnet, and a kilt aboon your knee, And list bonnie laddie and come awa’ wi’ me.

Oh laddie ye dinna ken the danger that yer in, If yer horses was to fleg, and yer owsen was to rin, This greedy auld fairmer wadna pay yer fee. Sae list bonnie laddie and come awa’ wi' me And it’s over the mountain and over the main, etc.

It’s into the barn and out o’ the byre, This auld fairmer, thinks ye’ll never tire It’s slavery life o’ low degree, Sae list bonnie laddie and come awa’ wi’ me.

And it’s over the mountain and over the main, etc.

With your tattie poorins and yer meal and kail, Yer soor sowan soorins and yer ill-brewed ale, Wi’ yer buttermilk and whey, and yer breid fired raw, Sae list bonnie laddie and come awa’. And it’s over the mountain and over the main, etc.

O laddie if ye’ve got a sweetheart and bairn, Ye’ll easily get rid o’ that ill-spun yarn; Twa rattles o’ the drum, and that’ll pay it a’, Sae list bonnie laddie and come awa’. And it’s over the mountain and over the main, etc.

Waltzing MatildaOnce a jolly swagman sat beside the billabong,Under the shade of a coolibah tree,And he sang as he sat and waited till his billy boiled ‘You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me

Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me;’ And he sang as he sat and waited till his billy boiled ‘You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me@.

Down came a jumbuck to drink beside the billabong,Up jumped the swagman and seized him with glee;And he sang as he tucked jumbuck in his tuckerbag,‘You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me. Waltzing Matilda’, etc.

Down came the stockman, riding on his thoroughbred,Down came the troopers, one, two, three.‘Where's the jolly jumbuck you’ve got in your tuckerbag?You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.’ Waltzing Matilda, etc.

Up jumped the swagman and plunged into the billabong,‘You'll never take me alive,’ cried he;And his ghost may be heard as you ride beside the billabong,‘You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me. Waltzing Matilda, etc.

O waly walyO, waly, waly up the bank,And waly, waly down the brae,

And waly, waly yon burn-side,Where I and my love wont to gae.I leaned my back against an aik,And thocht it was a trusty tree,But first it bow’d and syne it brak,And sae did my true love tae me.

O waly, waly but love is bonnieA little time while it is new,But when it’s auld it waxes cauldAnd fades away like the morning dew;O, wherefore should I busk my heid,Or wherefore should I kame my hair?For my true-love has me forsook,And ne’er will twine we me nae mair.

When we came in by Glasgow toun,We were a comely sicht to see;My love was clad in the black velvet,And I mysel’ in cramasie.It’s nae the frost that freezes fell,Nor yet the snaw’s inclemencie;It’s nae sic cauld that gars me greet,But my true love grown cauld to me.

Gin I had wist afore I kiss’tThat love had been sae ill to win,I’d lock’d my heart in a case of gold,And pinn’d it wi’ a siller pin.It’s oh if my young babe were born,And set upon the nurse’s knee,And I mysel’ were dead and gone,And the green grass growin’ ower me.

The Wee Toon ClerkYoung Mysie she gaed up the streetSome white fish for to buy;And the wee toon clerk he heard her stepAnd followed her on the sly.

Ricky doo dum day, doo dum day, Ricky-dicky doo dum day.

‘O whaur do you bide my bonny lass,I pray you tell to me;For gin the night were ne’er sae mirk,I would come and visit thee.

Ricky doo dum day, etc.

My father he aye locks the doorMy mither keeps the key;Gin ye were ne’er say wily a wightYe canna win in to me.

Ricky doo dum day, etc.

It’s I will get a ladder madeFu’ thirty steps and three;And I’ll climb up to the chimla tapAnd then come doon to thee.

Ricky doo dum day, etc.

The clerk he has a true britherAnd a wily wicht was he;And he has made a ladder langFu’ thirty steps and three.

Ricky doo dum day, etc.

He’s made a cleek but and a creelA creel but and a pin;And he’s awa to the chimla tapAnd he’s latten the wee clerk in.

Ricky doo dum day, etc.

The auld wife couldna sleep that nichtThough late, late was the hour;I’ll lay my life, quo’ the silly auld wifeThere’s a man in our dochter’s bower.

Ricky doo dum day, etc.

The auld wife she gat up herselTo see if the thing was true;But what the wrack took her fit in the darkFor into the creel she fell.

Ricky doo dum day, etc.

The man that was at the chimla tapFindin’ the creel was fu’He wrappit the rope his elbow roundAnd fast to him he drew.

Ricky doo dum day, etc.

Oh help, oh help, my hinny nowOh help my hinny doo;For him that he hae wished me atHas carried me aff jist noo.

Ricky doo dum day, etc.

O gin the foul thief’s gotten ye wifeI wish he may keep his haud;For a’ the lee lang winter’s nichtYou’ll never lie in your bed.

Ricky doo dum day, etc.

He’s tow’d her up, he’s tow’d her doonHe’s let the creel down fa’;Till every rib in the auld wife’s sidePlayed nick nack on the wa’.

Ricky doo dum day, etc.

Will Ye No Come Back Again? Bonnie Chairlie’s noo awa’, Safely ower the friendly main; Mony a heart will break in twa’, Should he ne’er come back again. Will ye no come back again? Will ye no come back again? Better lo’ed ye canna be, Will ye no come back again?

When ere I here the blackbird sing,Unto the evenings sinking down;Or merle that makes the woods to ring,To me there is nae ither sound. Will ye no come back again? etc.

Mony’s the gallant soldier fought,Mony’s the gallant chief did fall,Death itself was dearly bought,A’ for Scotland's King and law. Will ye no come back again? etc.

Sweet the laverock’s note and lang, Liltin’ wildly up the glen. But aye the ourcome o’ the sang, Was ‘Will ye no' come back again?’ Will ye no come back again? etc.

Willie Brew’d A Peck O’ Maut O, Willie brewed a peck o’ maut, And Rob and Allan cam to prie, Three blyther hearts that lee-lang night Ye wadna found in Christendie.

We are na fou, we’re nae that fou, But just a drappie in our e’e; The cock may craw, the day may daw, And ay we’ll taste the barley-bree.

Here are we met three merry boys, Three merry boys I trow are we; And monie a night we’ve merry been, And monie mae we hope to be. We are na fou, etc.

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, etc.

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, etc.

Willie’s Gane to Melville CastleO, Willie’s gane to Melville Castle, Boots an’ spurs an’ a’, He kissed the lassies a’ fareweel Afore he ga’ed awa’; Willie’s young and Willie’s bonnie, Lo’ed by ane and a’,

Oh what will a’ the lassies dae When Willie gaes awa? The first he met was Lady Kate, She led him through the ha’, An’ wi’ a sad and sorry heart She loot the tear doon fa. Beside the fire stood Lady Grace, Said ne’er a word ava; She thocht that she was sure o’ him Before he gaed awa’.

O, Willie’s gane to Melville Castle, Boots an’ spurs an’ a’, etc.

Then ben the house cam’ Lady Bell, ‘Gude troth ye need na craw, Maybe the lad will fancy me, And disappoint ye a’;’ Doun the stair tripped Lady Jean, The flower amang them a’, ‘O lasses trust in Providence An’ ye’ll get husbands a’.’ O, Willie’s gane to Melville Castle, etc.

When on his horse he turn’d awa’ They gathered round the door, He waved tae them his bonnet blue, They set up sic a roar; Their cries, their tears brocht Willie back, He kissed them ane an’ a’, ‘O lasses bide till I come hame And then I’ll wed ye a’.’ O, Willie’s gane to Melville Castle, etc.

Ye Cannae Shove Yer Granny Aff a BusOh, ye cannae shove yer granny aff a bus, Oh ye cannae shove yer granny aff a bus, Ye cannae shove yer granny, for she’s yer mammy’s mammy, Ye cannae shove yer granny aff a bus.

Ye can shove yer ither granny aff a bus, Ye can shove yer ither granny aff a bus. You can shove yer other granny, for she’s yer daddy’s mammy, Ye can shove yer other granny aff a bus.

Ye’ll no sit hereDoon at Ardnadam, sittin’ at the pier,When I heard the polis shout ‘Ye’ll no sit here’

‘Aye, but I will sit here;’

‘Naw, but ye’ll no sit here;’ ‘Aye but I will,’ ‘Na but ye’ll no,’ ‘Aye, but I will sit here.’

’Twas chief inspector Runcie, enhancin’ his careerPrancin’ up and doon the road like Yogi Bear. ‘Aye, but I will sit here;’ ‘Naw, but ye’ll no sit here, etc.’

He ca’d for help tae Glesca, they nearly chowed his ear;‘We’ve got the ’Gers an’ Celtic demonstrators here’. ‘Aye, but I will sit here;’ ‘Naw, but ye’ll no sit here,’ etc.

He telephoned the sodgers, but didna mak’ it clear;The sodgers sent doon Andy Stewart tae volunteer. ‘Aye, but I will sit here;’ ‘Naw, but ye’ll no sit here,’ etc.

He radioed the White Hoose but a’ that he could hear,Was ‘two, one zero’ and the set went queer. ‘Aye, but I will sit here;’ ‘Naw, but ye’ll no sit here,’ etc.

For Jack had drapped the H-bomb and gied himsel a shroud,An’ he met wi’ Billy Graham on a wee white cloud. ‘Aye, but I will sit here;’ ‘Naw, but ye’ll no sit here,’ etc.