Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/225

Rh Weel, weel, said Robin, in reply,

Ye ne'er again shall me deny,

Ye may a toothless maiden die

For me, I'll tak' nae care o't.

Fareweel for ever!—aff I hie;—

Sae took his leave without a sigh:

Oh! stop, quo' Kate, I'm yours, I'll try

The married life, an' care o't.

Rab wheel't about, to Kate cam' back,

An' ga'e her moi' a hearty smack,

Syne lengthen'd out a lovin' crack

'Bout marriage an' the care o't.

Though as she thocht she didna speak,

Ah' lookit unco mim an' meek,

Yet blythe was she wi' Rab to cleek

In marriage, wi' the care o't.

[—Air, "Whistle o'er the lave o't."—This song was written on the occasion of the battle of Vittoria, at which the 71st or Glasgow regiment of light infantry played a distinguished part. "We have been told, that when first produced at the old theatre in Queen street, Glasgow, the song was received with rapturous applause, and had a run of many nights.]

a' ye bards wi' loud acclaim,

High glory gie to gallant Grahame,

Heap laurels on our Marshall's fame,

Wha conquer'd at Vittoria.

Triumphant freedom smiled on Spain,

An' raised her stately form again,

Whan the British Lion shook his mane

On the mountains o' Vittoria.

Let blnst'rin' Suchet crously crack,

Let Joseph rin the coward's track,

And Jourdan wish his baton back,

He left upon Vittoria ,

If eer they meet their worthy king,

Let them dance rouu' him in a ring,

An' some Scottish piper play the spring

He blew them at Vittoria.

Gi's truth an' honour to the Dane,

Gi'e German's monarch heart and brain;

But aye in sic a cause as Spain,

Gi'e Britons a Vittoria.

The English Rose was ne'er sae red,

The Shamrock waved whare glory led,

And the Scottish Thistle raised its head,

An' smiled upon Vittoria.

Loud was the battle's stormy swell,

Whare thousands fought and mony fell;

But the Glasgow heroes bore the bell

At the battle of Vittoria.

The Paris maids may ban them a',

Their lads are maistly wede awa',

An' cauld an' pale as wreaths o' snaw

They lie upon Vittoria.

Wi' quakin' heart and tremblin' knees

The Eagle standard-bearer flees,

While the "meteor flag" flats to the breeze,

An' wantons on Vittoria.

Britannia's glory there was shown,

By the undaunted Wellington,

An' the tyrant trembled on his throne,

Whan hearin' o' Vittoria.

Peace to the spirits o' the brave,

Let a' their trophies for them wave.

An' green be our Cadogan's grave,

Upon thy field, Vittoria!

There let eternal laurels bloom,

While maidens mourn his early doom,

An' deck his lowly honour'd tomb

Wi' roses on Vittoria.

Ye Caledonian war-pipes play,

Barossa heard your Highlan' lay,

An' the gallant Scot show'd there that day,

A prelude to Vittoria.

Shout to the heroes—swell ilk voice.

To them wha made poor Spain rejoice,

Shout Wellington an' Lynedoch, boys,

Barossa an' Vittoria!

[ "The Lady of the Lake," by. This may be appropriately sung to the tune of "The Banks of the Devon."]

to the chief who in triumph advances!

Honour'd and bless'd be the ever-green Pine!

Long may the Tree, in his banner that glances.

Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!