Freedom For Scotland
Scotland's Ma Hame
Irish Songs
My Ancestors
Songs Fur Ma Wee Granny
Motherwell  History
Motherwell Football
Old and New Photographs of Motherwell
Stories Of Motherwell
The Auld Manse Cemetery
South Dalziel Church Motherwell
Dalziel Estate
Stastical Account
Dalziel Parish
Statistical Account Parish of Dalziel
1937 James Street Motherwell)
Isabella Graham Dickson
Cathie Dickson (Daughter)
The Auld Manse Graveyard
The Covenanters Graveyard
The Covenanters Oak
Jane Brown
Ode tae Rabbie
Ma Frien'The Robin
A Wean Cau'd Anne

I wish I was in Carrickfergus
Only for nights in Ballygrand
I would swim over the deepest ocean
Only for nights in Ballygrand

But the sea is wide and I cannot swim over
And neither have I the wings to fly
I wish I had a handsome boatman
To ferry me over, my love and I

Now in Killenny it is reported
On marble stones there as black as ink
With gold and silver I would support her
But I'll sing no more now till I get a drink

'Cause I am drunk today and I'm seldom sober
A handsome rover from town to town
Ah but i'm sick now my days are numbered
Come all you young men and lay me down
Thoughts              The Sash
For it's here I am an Orangeman,
just come across the sea
For singing and for dancing,
I hope that I'll please thee,
I can sing and dance with any man, as I did in days of yore.
And its on the twelfth I long to wear the Sash My Father wore.


It is old but it is beautiful
and it's colours they are fine.
It was worn at Derry, Aughrim, Enniskillen and the Boyne.
My Father wore it as a youth
in the bygone days of yore
And its on the twelfth I long to wear, The Sash My Father wore.

For it's now I'm going to leave you, good luck to you I'll say,
And when I'm on the ocean deep,
I hope for me youll pray
I'm going to my native land,
to a place they call Dromore.
Where on the twelfth I long to wear the Sash My father wore.


Whenever I come back again
my brethren here to see,
I hope to find old Orange style,
they will always welcome me.
My favorite tune's 'Boyne Water'.
but to please me more and more,
And make my Orange Heart full glad with the Sash My Father wore.

The Duchess of Hamilton Park
Me----- Cauld
Jimmy Gallacher
Other Poets
David Wingate Collier Poet
Scottish Songs
Scottish Songs 2
Scottish Songs 3
Irish Songs
Irish Songs 2
Old Scottish Words   In Use Today
Parliamo Glasgow
Old Map of Scotland
Bits an' Bobs
      The Green Fields of France

Well, how do you do, young Willie McBride,
Do you mind if I sit here down by your graveside,
And rest for a while neath the warm summer sun,
I've been working all day and I'm nearly done.

I see by your gravestone you were only nineteen,
When you joined the great fallen in nineteen sixteen,
I hope you died well and I hope you died clean,
Or young Willie McBride was it slow and obscene.


Did they beat the drum slowly, did they play the life lowly.
Did they sound the dead march as they lowered you down,
And did the band play the Last Post and chorus,
Did the pipes play the Flour's of the Forest.

And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind
In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined,
Although you died back in nineteen sixteen,
In that faithful heart are you forever nineteen.

Or are you a stranger without even a name
Enclosed and forever behind the glass pane,
In an old photograph, torn and battered and stained
And faded to yellow in a brown leather frame.

The sun now it shines on the green fields of France
There's a warm summer breeze,it makes the red poppies dance
And look how the sun shines from under the clouds
There's no gas, no barbed wire, no guns firing now.

But here in this graveyard it's still no-man's-land.
The countless white crosses stand mute in the sand,
To man's blind indifference to his fellow man,
To a whole generation that were butchered and damned.

Now young Willie McBride I can't help but wonder why
Do all those who lie here know why they died.
And did they believe when they answered the cause
Did they really believe that this war would end wars.

Well the sorrows,, the suffering, the glory, the pain
The killing and dying was all done in vain.
For young Willie McBride it all happened again,
And again, and again, and again, and again.

written by Scots/Aussie Eric Bogle.
              Fields of Athenry

By a lonely prison wall
I heard a young girl calling,
Michael, they have taken you away.
For you stole Travelian's corn,
so our young might see the morn,
Now a prison ship lies waiting in the bay.


Low lie the fields of Athenry
Where once we watched the small freebirds fly.
Our love was on the wing
We had dreams and songs to sing
Its so lonley round the fields of Athenry.

By a lonely prison wall
I heard a young man calling
Nothing matters, Mary, when you're free
Against the famine and the crown,
I rebelled, they put me down,
Now you must raise our child in dignity.


Low lie the fields of Athenry
Where once we watched the small freebirds fly.
Our love was on the wing
We had dreams and songs to sing
Its so lonley round the fields of Athenry.

By a lonley harbour wall,
She watched the last star falling
As the prison ship sailed out across the sky
But she'll watch and hope and pray,
For her love in Botany Bay
It's so lonely round the fields of Athenry.
Whilst she is lonely in the fields of Athenry.
            The Ould Orange Flute

In the County Tyrone near the town of Dunganon,
There was many a ruction that meself had a hand in
Bob Williams he lived there a weaver by trade
And all of us thought him a stout orange blade
On the twelfth of July as around it had come
Bob played his old flute to the sound of the drum
You can talk to ya harp, ya piano or Lute
But nothing compare's with the old Orange Flute

But Bob, the deciever, he took us all in
He married a Papish called Bridget McGinn
Turned Papish himself and forsook the old cause
That gave us our freedom, religion and laws
Now the boys in the place made some comment upon it
And Bob had to fly to the province of Connacht
Well he fled with his wife and his fixings to boot
And along with the latter his ould Orange Flute

At the chapels on sunday's, to atone for past deeds
He'd say Paters and Aves and he counted his beads
Till, after some time, at the priest's own desire
Bob went with his ould flute to play in the choir
Well he went with his ould flute to play in the mass
But the instrument shivered and sighed, oh alas
And blow as he would, though it made a great noise
The flute would play only "The Protestant Boys

At a council of priests that was held the next day
They decided to banish the ould flute away
They couldn't knock heresy out of its head
So they bought Bob a new one to play in its stead
Now the ould flute it was doomed and it's fate was pathetic
'Twas fastened and burnt at the stake as heretic
As the flames roared around it, sure they heard a strange noise
'Twas the ould flute still playing 'The Protestant Boys'
                                  Whisky In The Jar

As I was a-goin' over the Cork and Kerry Mountains
I met with Captain Farrell, and his money he was countin'.
First I drew my pistols and then I drew my rapier,
Sayin'Stand and deliver, for I am your bold deceiver.

Musha ringum duram da,
Whack fol the daddy-o,
Whack fol the daddy-o,
There's whiskey in the jar.

He counted out his money and it made a pretty penny;
I put it in my pocket to take home to ' Jenny.
She sighed and swore she loved me and never would deceive me,
But the devil take the women, for they always lie so easy!

Musha ringum duram da

I went into me chamber all for to take a slumber,
To dream of gold and girls, and of course it was no wonder:
Me Jenny took me charges and she filled them up with water,
Called on Captain Farrell to get ready for the slaughter.

Musha ringum duram da

Next mornin' early, before I rose for travel,
Up came a band of footmen and likewise Captain Farrell.
I goes to draw my pistol, for she'd stole away my rapier,
But I couldn't shoot for water, so a prisoner I was taken

Musha ringum duram da

They put me into jail with a judge all a-writin':
For robbin' Colonel Farrell on Gilgarra Mountain.
But they didn't take me fists and I knocked the jailer down
And bid me a farewell to this tight-fisted town.

Musha ringum duram da

I'd like to find me brother, the one who's in the army;
I don't know where he's stationed, be it Cork or in Killarney.
Together we'd go roamin' o'er the mountains of Kilkenny,
And I swear he'd treat me fairer than my darlin' sportin' Jenny!

Musha ringum duram da

There's some that takes delight in the carriages and rollin',
Some that takes delight in the hurley or the bollin',
But I takes delight in the juice of the barley,
Courtin' pretty maids in the mornin', o so early!

Musha ringum duram da
Jug of Punch

On one pleasant evening in the month of June,
As I was sitting with my glass and spoon,
A small bird sat on an ivy bush,
And the song it sang was the Jug of Punch.


Too-ra loo-ra loo, too-ra loo-ra loo,
Too-ra loo-ra loo, too-ra loo-ra loo.
A small bird sat on an ivy bush,
And the song it sang was the Jug of Punch.

What more diversion can a man desire,
Than to be seated by a snug coal fire,
Upon his knee a pretty wench
Aye and on the table a jug of punch


If I were sick and very bad,
And was not able to go or stand,
I would not think it all amiss,
To pledge my shoes for a jug of punch.


The doctor fails with all his art,
To cure an impression on the heart.
But if life was gone, within an inch,
What would bring it back but a jug of punch.


But when I'm dead and in my grave,
No costly tombstone will I crave,
Just lay me down in my native heath,
With a jug of punch at my head and feet.

                           The Bard of Armagh
Oh list' to the tale of a poor Irish harper
And scorn not the string of his old withered hands
But remember those fingers they once could move sharper
To raise up the strains of his dear native land.
It was long before the shamrock, dear isle's lovely emblem
Was crushed in its beauty by the Saxon's lion paw
And all the pretty colleens around me would gather
Call me their bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.

How I love to muse on the days of my boyhood
Though four score and three years have fled by them
It's king's sweet reflection that every young joy
For the merry-hearted boys make the best of old men.

At a fair or a wake I would twist my shillelah
And trip through a dance with my brogues tied with straw
There all the pretty maidens around me would gather
Call me their bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.

In truth I have wandered this wide world over
Yet Ireland's my home and a dwelling for me
And, oh, let the turf that my old bones shall cover
Be cut from the land that is trod by the free.

And when Sergeant Death in his cold arms doth embrace
And lull me to sleep with old Erin go bragh
By the side of my Kathleen, my dear pride, oh place me
Then forget Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.
For my Irish ancestors
Hosted by