Thine still, dear youth, that heart shall be,
Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.

Nor pant for aught save heaven and thee,
Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.

THE AULD STUARTS BACK AGAIN.

ANONYMOUS. 1745.

THE auld Stuarts back again!
The auld Stuarts back again!
Let howlet Whigs do what they can,
The Stuarts will be back again.
Wha cares for a' their creeshie duds,
And a' Kilmarnock's sowan suds?

We'll wauk their hides and fyle their fuds,,
And bring the Stuarts back again.

There's Ayr and Irvine, wi' the rest,
And a' the cronies o' the west;
Lord, sic a scaw'd and scabbit nest,

And they'll set up their crack again !
But wad they come, or daur they come,
Afore the bagpipe and the drum,
We'll either gar them a' sing dumb,
Or, "Auld Stuarts back again."

Give ear unto this loyal sang,

A'

ye that ken the richt frae wrang, An' a' that look and think it lang,

For auld Stuarts back again :
Were ye wi' me to chase the rae,
Out owre the hills an' far away,
And saw the lords come there that day,
To bring the Stuarts back again.

There might ye see the noble Mar,
Wi' Athole, Huntly, and Traquair,
Seaforth, Kilsyth, and Auldublair,

And mony mae, what reck, again.
Then what are a' their westlin' crews?
We'll gar the tailors tack again :
Can they forstand the tartan trews,
And "Auld Stuarts back again !"

THE DUKE OF CUMBERLAND.

From "The Wanderings of Prince Charles and Flora Macdonald,"
by PETER BUCHAN.

THAT mushrom thing call'd Cumberland
Has lately pass'd the Forth, sir;
But he's commenced plunderland

Since he gaed to the north, sir;

Sing audlie ilti, audlie ilti, audlie ilti, lara, lara ;
Sing audlie ilti, audlie ilti, audlie ilti, lara, lara.
He is the first of all the line

Call'd Protestant, I swear, sir,
That ever kiss'd our ladies fine,
Or breathed in Scottish air, sir.

Sing audlie ilti, &c.

Our priests he has incarcerate,
And burn'd our altars down, sir;
The godless Whigs rejoice at that,

And bless the firebrand loon, sir.

Sing audlie ilti, &c.

But when our tartan lads come back,
And messieurs land at Dover,
We'll singe the lousy German pack,

And drive them to Hanover.

Then all the brood o'erwhelm'd with dool,
I'll pledge my faith and troth, sir,
Instead of tarts and pies at yule,
They'll slab their turnip-broth, sir.

Sing audlie ilti, &c.

Sing audlie ilti, &c.

OH, HE'S BEEN LANG O' COMING!

From PETER BUCHAN'S "Prince Charles and Flora Macdonald."

THE youth that should hae been our king
Was dress'd in yellow, red, and green;

A braver lad ye wadna seen

Nor our brave royal Charlie.

Oh, he's been lang o' coming,
Lang, lang, lang o' coming;
Oh, he's been lang o' coming:
Welcome, royal Charlie !

At Falkirk and at Prestonpans,
Supported by the Highland clans,
They broke the Hanoverian bands,
For our brave royal Charlie.

Oh, he's been lang, &c.

The valiant chief, the brave Lochiel,
He met Prince Charlie on the dale;
Then, oh, what kindness did prevail
Between the chief and Charlie!

Oh, he's been lang, &c.

Oh, come and quaff along wi' me,
And drink a bumper three times three
To him that's come to set us free.
Huzza! rejoice for Charlie.

Oh, he's been lang, &c.

We daurna brew a peck o' maut,
But Geordie says it is a faut;
And to our kail cannot get saut

For want o' royal Charlie.

Oh, he's been lang, &c.

Now our good king abroad is gone,
A German whelp now fills the throne,
Whelps that are denied by none,

They're brutes compared to Charlie.

Oh, he's been lang, &c.

Now our good king is turn'd awa',
A German whelp now rules us a';

And though we're forced against our law,
The right belongs to Charlie.

Oh, he's been lang, &c.

If we had but our Charlie back,
We wadna fear the German's crack,
Wi' a' his thieving hungry pack;
The right belongs to Charlie.

Oh, he's been lang, &c.

O Charlie, come and lead our way,
No German whelp shall bear the sway;
Though ilka dog maun hae his day,

The right belongs to Charlie.

Oh, he's been lang, &c.

FLORA AND CHARLIE.

From PETER BUCHAN'S "Prince Charles and Flora Macdonald."

OWER yon muir and yon lofty mountains,
Where the trees are clad with snow;
And down by yon murmuring crystal fountain,
Where the silver streams do flow;
There fair Flora sat complaining,
For the absence of our king,
Crying, Charlie, lovely Charlie,
When shall we two meet again?

Fair Flora's love it was surprising,
Like to diadems in array;
And her dress of the tartan plaidie
Was like a rainbow in the sky.
And each minute she tuned her spinnet,
And royal James was the tune,

Crying, Charlie, royal Charlie,

When shalt thou enjoy thy own?

When all these storms are quite blown o'er,
Then the skies will rent and tear;
Then Charlie he'll return to Britain,
To enjoy the grand affair.

The frisking lambs will skip over,

And larks and linnets shall sweetly sing,

Singing, Charlie, royal Charlie,

You're welcome home to be our king.

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT.

From "Prince Charles and Flora Macdonald," by PETER BUCHAN.

THOUGH Geordie reigns in James's stead,

I'm grieved, yet scorn to show that;
I'll ne'er look down, nor hang my head,
On rebel Whigs for a' that:

But still I'll trust in Providence,

And still I'll laugh at a' that;

And sing, He's ower the hills this night
That I love weel for a' that.

He's far ayont Killebrae this night
That I love weel for a' that;

He wears a pistol on his side,

Which makes me blythe for a' that.

The Highland coat, the philabeg,
The tartan trews, and a' that,
He wears that's o'er the hills this night,
And he'll be here for a' that.

He wears a broadsword on his side,
He kens weel how to draw that;
The target and the Highland plaid,
And shoulder-belt, and a' that;
A bonnet bound wi' ribbons blue,
A white cockade, and a' that,
He wears that's o'er the hills this night,
And will be here for a' that.

The Whigs think a' that Willie's mine,
But yet they mauna fa' that;

They think our hearts will be cast down,

But we'll be blythe for a' that:

For a' that and a' that,

And thrice as meikle's a' that;

He's bonny that's o'er the hills this night,
And will be here for a' that.

But, oh, what will the Whigs say syne,
When they're mista'en and a' that;
When Geordie maun fling by the crown,
The hat and wig, and a' that?