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And he'll woo his bonny lassie
When the kye comes hame.

When the kye comes hame, &c.

When the blewart bears a pearl,

And the daisy turns a pea, And the bonny lucken gowan

Has fauldit up her ee, Then the laverock frae the blue lift

Doops down, an' thinks nae shame To woo his bonny lassie When the kye comes hame.

When the kye comes hame, &c.

See yonder pawkie shepherd,

That lingers on the hill, His ewes are in the fauld,

An' his lambs are lying still; Yet he downa gang to bed,

For his heart is in a flame, To meet his bonny lassie When the kye comes hame.

When the kye comes hame, &c.

When the little wee bit heart

Rises high in the breast, An' the little wee bit starn

Rises red in the east,

() there's a joy sae dear,

That the heart can hardly frame,
Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie,
When the kye comes hame!

When the kye comes hame, &c.

Then since all nature joins

In this love without alloy, 0, wha wad prove a traitor

To Nature's dearest joy? Or wha wad choose a crown,

Wi’ its perils and its fame, And miss his bonny lassie When the kye comes hame ?

When the kye comes hame,

When the kye comes hame, 'Tween the gloaming and the mirk,

When the kye comes hame!

I composed the foregoing song I neither know how nor when ; for when the “ Three Perils of Man" came first to my hand, and I saw this song put into the mouth of a drunken poet, and mangled in the singing, I had no recollection of it whatever. I had written it off band along with the prose, and quite forgot it. But I liked it, altered it, and it has been my favourite pastoral for singing ever since. It is too long to be sung from beginning to end; but only the second and antepenult verses can possibly be dispensed with, and these not very well neither.


ALEXANDER STUART of Lenachan was a man of gigantic strength, and an officer of the regiment of Appin. He was obliged to make his escape to America, several years subsequent to the Forty-Five, to elude the vengeance of the Campbells. The song is set to music by Smith, in The Scottish Minstrel.

FARE thee weel, my native cot,

Bothy o' the birken-tree !
Sair the heart an' hard the lot

O’ the man that parts wi' thee !
My good grandsire's hand thee rear'd-

Then thy wicker-work was full;
Many a Campbell's glen he clear'd,

Hit the buck, an' hough’d the bull.

In thy green


crook Mair lies hid than crusted stanes ;

In thy bein and weirdly nook

Lie some stout Clan-Gillian banes.

Thou wert aye the kinsman's hame

Routh and welcome was his fare;

But if serf or Saxon came,

He cross'd Murich's hirst nae mair!

Nerer hand in thee yet bred

Kendnae how the sword to wield;

Never heart of thine had dread

Of the foray or the field!
Ne'er on straw, mat, bulk, or bed,

Son of thine lay down to dee;
Every lad within thee bred

Died beneath heaven's open ee!

Charlie Stuart he came here

For our king, as right became; Wha could shun the Bruce's heir,

Or desert his royal name ? Firm to stand and free to fa',

Forth we march'd right valiantlie

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