Now, Johnnie, be as good's your word ;
Come, let us try both fire and sword,
And dinna flee away like a frighted bird,
That's chased frae its nest in the morning.
Hey, Johnnie Cope, &c.

When Johnnie Cope he heard of this,
He thought it wadna be amiss
To have a horse in readiness
To flee awa' in the morning.
Hey, Johnnie Cope, &c.

Fie now, Johnnie, get up and rin,
The Highland bagpipes mak' a din;
It is best to sleep in a hale skin,
For 'twill be a bluidy morning.
Hey, Johnnie Cope, &c.

When Johnnie Cope to Dunbar came,
They speer'd at him, Where's a' your men?
The deil confound me gin I ken,

For I left them a' in the morning.
Hey, Johnnie Cope, &c.

Now, Johnnie, troth ye are na blate
To come wi' the news o' your ain defeat,
And leave your men in sic a strait

Sae early in the morning.

Hey, Johnnie Cope, &c.

Oh, faith! quo' Johnnie, I got sic flegs
Wi' their claymores and philabegs;
If I face them again, deil break my legs;
So I wish you a gude morning.

Hey, Johnnie Cope, &c.

This highly popular song was written when the Highlanders were in full and joyous excitement at the defeat of the king's forces at Prestonpans, by Prince Charles, on the 22d of September, 1745. The battle has been sometimes called the battle of Tranent Muir, and of Gladsmuir. Sir John Cope, it will be remembered, was tried by a court-martial for his sudden retreat on this occasion, and acquitted. The author of this song was a farmer in Haddingtonshire.

CARLE, AN THE KING COME.

ANONYMOUS. Air-" Carle, an the king come."

CARLE, an the king come,

Carle, an the king come,

Thou shalt dance and I will sing,
Carle, an the king come.

An somebody were come again,
Then somebody maun cross the main ;
And every man shall hae his ain,
Carle, an the king come.

I trow we swappit for the worse,
We ga'e the boot and better horse;
And that we'll tell them at the corse,
Carle, an the king come.

When yellow corn grows on the rigs,
And gibbets stand to hang the Whigs,
Oh, then we'll a' dance Scottish jigs,
Carle, an the king come.

Nae mair wi' pinch and drouth we'll dine,
As we hae done-a dog's propine-
But quaff our draughts o' rosy wine,
Carle, an the king come.

Cogie, an the king come,

Cogie, an the king come,

I'se be fou, and thou'se be toom,
Cogie, an the king come.

The chorus of this song, known to have been sung in the time of Cromwell, has served on several occasions, not only in the Parliamentary struggles of Charles I., but in the rebellions of 1715 and 1745. Sir Walter Scott wrote a parody or imitation of it, entitled, "Carle, now the king's come," on occasion of the visit of George IV. to his Scottish dominions.

THE BLACK BIRD.

From the "Tea-Table Miscellany," 1724.

UPON a fair morning, for soft recreation,
I heard a fair lady was making her moan,
With sighing and sobbing and sad lamentation,
Saying, My black bird most royal is flown.

My thoughts they deceive me, reflections do grieve me,
And I am o'erburden'd wi' sad miserie;

Yet if death should blind me, as true love inclines me, My black bird I'll seek out wherever he be.

Once into fair England my black bird did flourish,
He was the flower that in it did spring;
Prime ladies of honour his person did nourish,
Because he was the true son of a king.

But since that false fortune, which still is uncertain,
Has caused this parting between him and me,
His name I'll advance in Spain and in France,
And seek out my black bird wherever he be.

The birds of the forest all met together;
The turtle has chosen to dwell wi' the dove;
And I am resolved, in foul or fair weather,
Once in the spring to seek out my love.

He's all my heart's treasure, my joy and my pleasure,
And justly, my love, my heart follows thee,
Who art constant and kind and courageous of mind:
All bliss on my black bird wherever he be!

In England my black bird and I were together,
Where he was still noble and generous of heart;
Ah, woe to the time when first he went thither!
Alas, he was forced from thence to depart!
In Scotland he's deem'd and highly esteem'd,

In England he seemeth a stranger to be;
Yet his fame shall remain in France and in Spain :
All bliss to my black bird wherever he be!

What if the fowler my black bird has taken!
Then sobbing and sighing will be all my tune;
But if he is safe, I'll not be forsaken,

And hope yet to see him in May or in June.
For him through the fire, the mud, and the mire,
I'll go ; for I love him to such a degree,
Who is constant and kind, and noble of mind,
Deserving all blessings wherever he be!

It is not the ocean can fright me wi' danger,
Nor that like a pilgrim I wander forlorn;
I may meet wi' friendship from one is a stranger,
More than of one that in Britain is born.

I pray Heaven, so spacious, to Britain be gracious,
Though some there be odious to both him and me;
Yet joy and renown and laurels shall crown

My black bird with honour, wherever he be !

The "black bird" was a name given to the "Chevalier" for his black complexion. It has often excited surprise that Allan Ramsay should have admitted so dangerous a song into his harmless and loyal collection. The allegory can scarcely be said to have been obscure and complicated enough to have deceived him as to its real meaning.

LEWIS GORDON.

DR. ALEXANDER GEDDES, born 1737, died 1802.
Air-"Oh, an' ye were deid, gudeman!"

Он, send Lewie Gordon hame,
And the lad I daurna name;
Though his back be at the wa',
Here's to him that's far awa'!
Ochon, my Highlandman!
O my bonnie Highlandman!
Weel would I my true-love ken
Amang ten thousand Highlandmen.

This lovely youth of whom I sing
Is fitted for to be a king;

On his breast he wears a star,-
You'd tak' him for the god of war.
Ochon, &c.

Oh, to see this princely one
Seated on a royal throne!
Disasters a' would disappear;

Then begins the jub❜lee year.
Ochon, &c.

The "Lewis Gordon" of this song was a son of the Duke of Gordon. He was implicated in the affair of 1745, but fled to France after the defeat of Culloden.

WHAT'S A' THE STEER?

ANONYMOUS. 1745.

WHAT'S a' the steer, kimmer?
What's a' the steer?

Charlie he is landed,

An', haith, he'll soon be here.
The win' was at his back, carle,
The win' was at his back;
I carena, sin' he's come, carle,
We were na worth a plack.

I'm right glad to hear't, kimmer,
I'm right glad to hear't;
I hae a gude braid claymore,
And for his sake I'll wear't.
Sin' Charlie he is landed,

We hae nae mair to fear;
Sin' Charlie he is come, kimmer,
We'll hae a jub’lee year.