Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/297

Rh Her mither wears a plettit mutch; Her father is an honest dyker, An' she hersel's a daintie quean, Ye winna shaw me monie like her. Wooing at her, &c. A pleasant lass she's kent to be, Wi' fouth o' sense an' smeddum in her; There's no a swankie far or near, But tries wi' a' his might to win her. Wooing at her, &c. But sweet and pleasant as she is, She winna thole the marriage tether, But likes to rove and rant about, Like highland couts amang the heather. Wooing at her, &c. It's seven years, and somewhat mair, Sin' Matthew Dutch made courtship till her, A merchant bluff, ayont the burn, Wi' heaps o' breeks an' bags o' siller. Wooing at her, &c. The next to him was Baltic John, Stept up the brae and keeket at her, Syne turn'd as great a fool's he came, And in a day or twa forgat her. Wooing at her, &c. Now Lawrie French has ta'en the whim To toss his airs, and frisk about her, And Malcolm Fleming puffs and swears He disna value life without her. Wooing at her, &c. They've casten out wi' a' their kin, Thinking that wad gar them get her; Yet after a' the fash they've ta'en, They maybe winna be the better. Wooing at her, &c. But Donald Scot's the happy lad, Wha seems to be the coshest wi' her, He never fails to get a kiss, As aften as he likes to see her. Wooing at her, &c. But Donald, tak' a friend's advice, Although I ken ye fain wad ha'e her, E'en just be doing as ye are, And haud wi' what ye're getting frae her. Wooing at her, &c. Ye're weel, and wats nae, as we say, In getting leave to dwell beside her; And gin ye had her mair your ain, Ye'd maybe find it waur to guide her. Wooing at her, &c. Ah! Lawrie, ye've debauch'd the lass, Wi' vile new-fangled tricks ye've play'd her; Depraved her morals;—like an ass, Ye've courted her, and syne betray'd her. Wi' hanging of her, burning of her Cutting, hacking, slashing at her; Bonnie Lizy Liberty, May ban the day ye ettled at her.

[ of the Forty-five, written, composed, and dedicated to the Clan, by ]

are waving o'er Morven's dark heath, Claymores are flashing from many a sheath; Hark! 'tis the gathering. On, onward! they cry; Far flies the signal to conquer or die. Then follow thee, follow a boat to the sea, Thy Prince in Glen Moidart is waiting for thee, Where war-pipes are sounding and banners are free, Maclaine and his clansmen the foremost you'll see. Wildly the war-cry has startled yon stag, And waken'd the echoes of Gillian's lone crag; Up hill and down glen each brave mountaineer Has belted his plaid and has mounted his spear. Then follow thee, &c. The signal is heard from mountain to shore, They rush like the flood o'er dark Corry-vohr, The war-note is sounding, loud, wildly, and high, Louder they shout, On, to conquer or die! Then follow thee, &c. The heath-bell at morn so proudly ye trod, Son of the mountain! now covers thy sod; Wrapt in your plaid, 'mid the bravest ye lie, The words as ye fell still conquer or die. Then follow thee, &c.