But dearly to Appin the glory was bought, And dearest of all on the field of Culloden! Lament, O, Glen-Creran, Glen-Duror, Ardshiel, High offspring of heroes, who conquer'd were never, For the deeds of your fathers no bard shall reveal, And the bold clan of Stuart must perish for ever! Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of Appin, &c. Clan-Chattan is broken, the Seaforth bends low, And where is bold Keppoch, the lord of Lochaber? All gone with the house they supported!—laid low, While dogs of the south their bold life-blood were lapping, Trod down by a proud and a merciless foe The brave are all gone with the Stuarts of Appin! Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of Appin, &c. They are gone! they are gone! the redoubted, the brave! The sea-breezes lone o'er their relics are sighing, Dark weeds of oblivion shroud many a grave, Where the unconquer'd foes of the Campbell are lying. But, long as the grey hairs wave over this brow, For their star is no more, And the green grass waves over the heroes of Appin! THE POOR MAN. THE air of this song is my own, and is to be found in The Border Garland, with accompaniments by Dewar-Mr Purdie's edition. Loose the yett, an' let me in, Lady wi' the glistening ee, Dinna let your menial train Drive an auld man out to dee. See, the rime hangs at my chin Lady, for the sake of Heaven, Loose the yett, an' let me in! Ye shall gain a virgin hue, Lady, for your courtesye, Ever beaming, ever new, Aye to bloom an' ne'er to dee. Lady, there's a lovely plain Lies beyond yon setting sun, There we soon may meet again— Short the race we hae to run. 'Tis a land of love an' light; Rank or title is not there, High an' low maun there unite, Poor man, prince, an' lady fair; There, what thou on earth hast given, Doubly shall be paid again! Lady, for the sake of Heaven, Loose the yett, an' let me in! Blessings rest upon thy head, That bright tear that thou didst shed It is gane to heaven aboon, To the fount of charitye; When thy days on earth are done, That blest drop shall plead for thee 3 THE WOMEN FO'K. THE air of this song is my own. It was first set to music by Heather, and most beautifully set too. It was afterwards set by Dewar, whether with the same accompaniments or not, I have forgot. It is my own favourite humorous song, when forced to sing by ladies against my will, which too frequently happens; and, notwithstanding my wood-notes wild, it will never be sung by any so well again. -For the air, see the Border Garland. O SAIRLY may I rue the day I fancied first the womenkind; For aye sinsyne I ne'er can hae Ae quiet thought or peace o' mind! They hae plagued my heart an' pleased my ee, An' teased an' flatter'd me at will, But aye, for a' their witcherye, The pawky things I lo'e them still. O the women fo'k! O the women fo'k! But they hae been the wreck o' me; O weary fa' the women fo'k, For they winna let a body be! E |