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all attempts to persuade him to acknowledge the justice of his sentence were fruitless."

The ballad was once much longer and more particular; but Mr Thomson shortened it to suit a page, and, as usual, I have no original copy.

Now cease of auld ferlies to tell us,

That happen'd nane living kens when ;
I'll sing you of three noble fellows

Wha lived in the wild Highland glen.
The times were grown hard to brave Donald,

For lost was Culloden's sad day;
The hearts o’ the chiefs were a' broken,

And 0, but poor Donald was wae!

They keekit out o’er the wild correi,

The towers of Clan-Ranald were gone;
The reek it hung red o’er Glengarry;

Lochaber was herried and lone!
They turn’d them about on the mountain,

The last o' their shealings to see ;
“O, hon a Righ!” cried poor Donald ;

“ There's naething but sorrow for me!"

Now our three noble lads are in hiding,

Afar in Glen-Moriston's height;
In the rock a' the day they are biding,

And the moon is their candle by night.
And oft their rash rising they rued it,

As looking o'er ravage and death, And blamed their ain prince, Charlie Stuart,

For causing the Highlands sic skaith.

Ae night they sat fearfu' o' danger,

And snappit their kebbuck fu’ keen, When in came a stately young stranger,

As ragged as man e'er was seen. They hadna weel lookit around them

Till tears cam happing like rain“ You're welcome, young Dugald M'Cluny;

For a' you see here is your ain !”

Each kend the brave wreck of Culloden,

But dared not to mention his name,

Lest one of the three had betray'd him,

And cover'd their country wi’ shame.


They served him with eager devotion,

They clad him from shoulder to tae, Spread his board from the moor and the ocean,

And watch'd o'er him a’ the lang day.

They had not a plack in their coffer,

They had not a ewe on the brae, Yet kend o'mair goud in their offer

Than they could have carried away. Now crack o' your Grecian and Roman !

We've cast them a' back in the shade; Gie me a leal-hearted M‘Donald,

Wi' nought but his dirk and his plaid !

The sun shines sweet on the heather,

When tempests are over and gane; But honour shines bright in all weather,

Through poverty, hardship, and pain. Though we had ne'er heard o' Clan-Ronald's

Nor gallant Glengarry's wild sway, The names of the loyal M‘Donalds

Had flourish'd for ever and aye !



In the title and chorus of this favourite pastoral song, I choose rather to violate a rule in grammar, than a Scottish phrase so common, that when it is altered into the proper way, every shepherd and shepherd's sweetheart account it

I was once singing it at a wedding with great glee the latter way, (“ when the kye come hame,”) when a tailor, scratching his head, said, “ It was a terrible affectit way that.!" I stood corrected, and have never sung it so again. It is to the old air of “ Shame fa’ the gear and the blathrie o't,” with an additional chorus. It is set to music in the Noctes, at which it was first sung, and in no other place that I am aware of.

Come all ye jolly shepherds

That whistle through the glen,
I'll tell ye of a secret

That courtiers dinna ken :
What is the greatest bliss

That the tongue o' man can name?
'Tis to woo a 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.

'Tis not beneath the coronet,

Nor canopy of state, 'Tis not on couch of velvet,

Nor arbour of the great'Tis beneath the spreading birk,

In the glen without the name, Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, When the kye comes hame.

When the kye comes hame, &c.

There the blackbird bigs his nest

For the mate he loes to see,
And on the topmost bough,

O, a happy bird is he;
Where he pours his melting ditty,

And love is a' the theme,

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