Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/513

Rh

[ can be traced no farther back than to David Herd's collection, 1776. The author is unknown.—Tune, "Donald."]

ye ha'e ta tartan plaid,

Or will ye ha'e ta ring, matam?

Or will ye ha'e ta kiss o' me?

And tat's a pretty ting, matam!

Haud awa', bide awa',

Haud awa' frae me, Donald!

I'll neither kiss nor ha'e a ring;

Nae tartan plaids for me, Donald!

O, see ye not her ponnie progues,

Her fecket-plaid, plue, creen, matam?

Her twa short hose, and her twa spoigs,

And a shoulter-pelt apeen, matam?

Haud awa', bide awa',

Haud awa' frae me, Donald!

Nae shoulder-belts, nae trinkabouts,

Nae tartan hose for me, Donald!

Her can pe show a petter hough

Tan him tat wears ta croun, matam;

Hersel' ha'e pistol and claymore,

To fley ta Lallant loon, matam.

Haud awa', haud awa',

Haud awa' frae me, Donald

For a' your houghs and warlike arms,

You're no a match for me, Donald.

Hersel' ha'e a short coat, pi pocht

No trail my feets at rin, matam;

A cutty sark o' goot ham sheet,

My motter she pe spin, matam.

Haud awa', haud awa',

Haud awa' frae me, Donald;

Gae hame and hap your naked houghs,

And fash nae mair wi' me, Donald.

Ye's ne'er pe pidden work a turn '

At ony kind o' spin, matam;

But shug your laeno (child) in a scull,

And tidel Highland sing, matam.

Haud awa', haud awa',

Haud awa' frae me, Donald

Tour jogging sculls and Highland sang

Will sound but harsh wi' me, Donald,

In ta morning, when him rise,

Ye'se get fresh whey for tea, matam;

Sweet milk and ream as much you please,

Far sheeper tan Pohea, matam.

Haud awa', haud awa',

Haud awa' frae me, Donald!

I winna quit my morning's tea—

Your whey will ne'er agree, Donald.

Haper Gaelic ye'se pe learn,

And tat's ta ponny speak, matam;

Ye'se get a cheese, and butter kirn:

Come wi' me kin ye like, matam.

Haud awa', haud awa',

Haud awa' frae me, Donald!

Your Gaelic and your Highland cheer

Will ne'er gae down wi' me, Donald.

Fait, ye'se pe get a siller protch,

Pe pigger tan ta moon, matam;

Ye'se ride in currach 'stead o' coach,

And wow put ye'll pe fine, matam.

Haud awa', haud awa',

Haud awa' frae me, Donald!

For a' your Highland rarities,

Ye're no a match for me, Donald.

What! 'tis ta way tat ye'll pe kind

To a pretty man like me, matam!

Sae lang's claymore hangs py my side

I'll nefer marry tee, matam!

O, come awa', come awa',

Come awa' wi' me, Donald!

I wadna quit my Highland man;

Frae Lawlands set me free, Donald!

tend thy bower, my bonnie May,

In spring-time o' the year,

When saft'ning winds begin to woo

The primrose to appear—

When daffodils begin to dance,

And streams again flow free,

And little birds are heard to pipe

On the sprouting forest tree.