Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar,
Thunderclaps rend the air,
Baffled, our foes stand by the shore,
Follow they will not dare.
Chorus:
Speed bonnie boat like a bird on the wing,
Onward, the sailors cry.
Carry the lad that's born to be king
Over the sea to Skye.
Though the waves leap, soft shall ye sleep,
Ocean's a royal bed.
Rock'd in the deep Flora will keep
Watch o'er your weary head.
Chorus:
Burned are our homes, exile and death,
Scattered the loyal man.
Yet ere the sword, cool in the sheath,
Charlie will come again.
Chorus:
Many's the lad fought on that day,
Well the claymor could wield,
When the night came, silently lay
Dead in Collodens field.
Chorus:
Is there for honest poverty
That hangs his head, an' a' that
The coward slave, we pass him by
We dare be poor for a' that
For a' that, an' a' that
Our toil's obscure and a' that
The rank is but the guinea's stamp
The man's the gowd for a' that
What though on hamely fare we dine
Wear hoddin grey, an' a' that
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine
A man's a man, for a' that
For a' that, an' a' that
Their tinsel show an' a' that
The honest man, though e'er sae poor
Is king o' men for a' that
Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord
Wha struts an' stares an' a' that
Tho' hundreds worship at his word
He's but a coof for a' that
For a' that, an' a' that
His ribband, star and a' that
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that
A prince can mak' a belted knight
A marquise, duke, an' a' that
But an honest man's aboon his might
Gude faith, he maunna fa' that
For a' that an' a' that
Their dignities an' a' that
The pith o' sense an' pride o' worth
Are higher rank that a' that
Then let us pray that come it may
(as come it will for a' that)
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth
Shall bear the gree an' a' that
For a' that an' a' that
It's coming yet for a' that
That man to man, the world o'er
Shall brithers be for a' that.
Robert Burns.
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Dalziel Parish
1798
Whaur hae ye been sae braw, lad?
Whaur hae ye been sae brankie-o?
Whaur hae ye been sae braw, lad?
Cam' ye by Killiecrankie-o?
An' ye had been whaur I hae been
Ye wadna been sae cantie-o
An' ye had seen what I hae seen
On the braes o' Killiecrankie-o
I fought at land, I fought at sea
At hame I fought my auntie-o
But I met the Devil and Dundee
On the braes o' Killiecrankie-o
The bauld pitcur fell in a furr
And Clavers gat a crankie-o
Or I had fed an Athol gled
On the braes o' Killiecrankie-o
Oh fie, MacKay, What gart ye lie
I' the brush ayont the brankie-o?
Ye'd better kiss'd King Willie's loff
Than come tae Killiecrankie-o
It's nae shame, it's nae shame
It's nae shame to shank ye-o
There's sour slaes on Athol braes
And the de'ils at Killiecrankie-o
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1942-2001
Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Though stock-dove whose echo resounds from the hill
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny dell
Thou green created lapwing, thy screaming for bear
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills
Far marked with the courses of clear winding rills
There daily I wander, as morn rises high
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow
There oft, as mild evening creeps over the lea
The sweet scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave
As gathering sweet flow'rets, she stems thy clear wave.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes
Flow gently , sweet river, the theme of my lays
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
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For ae bawbee,
I got a farthing back again
To buy tobacco wi'.
Chorus:
And wi' you, and wi' you,
And wi' you, Johnny lad,
I'll drink the buckles o' my sheen,
Wi' you, my Johnny lad.
When auld King Arthur ruled this land,
He was a thievin' king,
He stole twa bows a' barley-meal
To mak' a white pudding.
The pudding it was awfu' guid,
'Twas weel mixed up wi' plooms,
The lumps o' suet into it
Were big as baith my thooms.
Samson was a michty man
And he focht wi' cuddies' jaws,
And he focht a score o' battles
Wearin' crimson flannel drawers.
There was a man in Nineveh
And he was wondrous wise;
He lowped into a hawthorn-hedge
And scratched oat baith his eyes.
And when he saw his e'en were oot,
He was gey troubled then;
He lowped into another hedge
And scratched them in again.
Napoleon was an emperor,
He ruled by land and sea,
He was king of France and Germany
But he never rirled Polmadie.
One Sunday I went walking
And there I saw the queen,
Playing at the fitba'
With the lads on Glesca Green.
The captain o' the other side
Was scoring wi' great style,
So the queen she ca'd a polisman
And stuck him in the jail.
Away ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses
In you let the minions of luxury rove
Restore me the rocks where the snowflake reposes
If still they are sacred to freedom and love.
Yet Caledonia, dear are thy mountains
Round their white summits tho' elements war
Tho' cataracts foam 'stead of smooth flowing fountains
I sigh for the valley of dark Lochnagar.
Ah, there my young footsteps in infancy wandered
My cap was the bonnet, my coat was the plaid
On chieftains departed my memory pondered
As daily I strayed thro' the pine covered glade.
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star
For fancy was cheered by traditional story
Disclosed by the natives of dark Lochnagar.
Years have rolled on, Lochnagar, since I left you
Years must elapse ere I see you again
Tho' nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you
Yet still thou art dearer than Albion's plain.
England thy beauties are tame and domestic
To one who has roved on the mountains afar
Oh! For the crags that are wild and magestic
The steep frowning glories of dark Lochnagar.
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