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My bonnie wee wifie, the bairnies, an' me,
The peat-stack and turf-stack our Phoebus shall be,
Till day close the scoul o' its angry ee,
An' we'll rest in gude hopes o' the pleughin' o't.

WHA the deil hae we got for a King,

But a wee, wee German lairdie!
An' whan we gade to bring him hame,

He was delving in his kail-yardie.
Sheughing kail an' laying leeks,
But * the hose and but the breeks,
Up his beggar duds he cleeks,

The wee, wee German lairdie.
An' he's clapt down in our gudeman's chair,

The wee, wee German lairdie;
An' he's brought fouth o’ foreign leeks,

An' dibblet them in his yardie.
He's pu'd the rose o’English lowns,
An' brak the harp o' Irish clowns,
But our thristle will jag his thumbs,

The wee, wee German lairdie.
Come up amang the Highland hills,

Thou wee, wee German Lairdie;
And see how Charlie's lang kail thrive,

He dibblet in his yardie.
An' if a stock ye daur to pu',
Or haud the yoking of a pleugh,
We'll break yere sceptre owre yere mou',

Thou wee bit German lairdie !
Our hills are steep, our glens are deep,

Nae fitting for a yardie;
An' our norlan' thristles winna pu',

Thou wee, wee German lairdie!

* But, without.

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* “ There are several variations of this curious old song. The one here" given “ seems a little more modern: the others are more homely and coarse in their manner. With the Revolution commences the era of Jacobite Song. The romantic spirit of warrior adventure had begun to leave the Scotch. It hovered around them like a decaying flame, after the quenching of those deadly feuds which feasted on the richest blood of the sister kingdoms. Those warlike songs which stirred the valour of their ancestors began to fade along with it. The quarrels of rival houses, and private family broils, had now entirely ceased; and the Caledonian muse was doffing her steely weeds, and piping of rural love, and sweet tranquillity, when the fatal Rebellion of 1715 restored the gory plumes to her cap, and wreathed her brows with laurels dripping in the blood of her country. It was but a momentary glimpse for the poetic exploit of warlike ballad; but among the peasantry it gained a surer hold. They beheld, with a pity prompt on revenge, the fall of many of their most popular nobility. They were secretly attached to their beloved Stuarts. This was the rise of many of their finest Jacobite ballads and songs, which, for bitter humour, and manly feeling, are scarcely surpassed by the compositions of any age or nation. The rash and disastrous attempt of the brave, the gallant, but unfortunate CHARLES, drew on unhappy Scotland the awful punishment affixed to Rebellion; a punishment that was inflicted with so unrelenting a hand, that the prophecy of the fanatic PEDEN seemed now fully accomplished— Scotland! the time is nigh when we may ride fifty miles 'mang thy hills and thy vallies, nor find a reeking house, nor hear a crawing cock.' This is the second era of Jacobite Song. Many of the afflicting and plaintive kind belong to this period. The awful visitations of the Duke of CÚMBERLAND are yet remembered among the peasantry with horror! His savage butcheries deeply imprinted themselves into the hearts of WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE. What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie,

What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man? Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie

To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' lan'! He's always compleenin frae mornin' to e'enin',

He hosts and he hirples the wearie day lang; He's doy'lt and he's dozin, his bluid it is frozen,

0, drearie's the night wi' a crazy auld man!

the Scotch. It would be superfluous to offer any apology for the political tendency of these Jacobite Ballads. Time has now softened down those animosities which, at a former period, would have invoked the rigour of the law on those who ventured to sympathize in the fate of the unfortunate Chevalier, or to praise the loyalty of his adherents; and a Briton can now enter into the feelings and attachments of his ancestors without having the rod of prosecution held over him. The rival claims of Stuart and Brunswick are to the present generation no more a matter of dispute than those of York and Lancaster: they have been for ever set at rest by the total extinction of the ancient line of the native kings of England. In this, as in all our civil wars, the question of right has been decided by an appeal to arms; and the victorious party has claimed the privilege of branding the vanquished with the stigma of rebellion. It is a wise remark of the patriotic FLETCHER, that, • a3 the most just and honourable enterprizes when they fail, are accounted in the number of rebellions; so all attempts, however unjust, if they succeed, always purge themselves of all guilt and suspicion.' Posterity, however, are bound to do justice to the character of those men who devoted their lives to what they conceived to be the just cause ; their fidelity and loyalty have a double claim on our respect, when we consider that they were our ancestors our countrymen; and that they were denounced as traitors only because they were unsuccessful. It is remarkable, that on the side of Prince CHARLES, all the national poets have ranged themselves, from those who flourished in his day, down to Burns and CAMPBELL.”

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers,

I never can please him, do a' that I can;
He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows,

O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man!
My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity,

I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan; I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart-break him,

And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan.



Tune—" Hey tuttie taitie.
I'm wearing awa, Jean,
Like snaw when its thaw, Jean,
I'm wearing awa, Jean,

To the land o' the leal.
There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
There's nae cauld nor care, Jean;
The day is ay fair, Jean,

In the land o' the leal.

Ye were ay leal and true, Jean,
Your task's ended now, Jean,
And I'll welcome you, Jean,

To the land o' the leal.
Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean,
She was baith gude and fair, Jean,
And we grudg'd her right sair

To the land o' the leal.

Then dry that tearfu' ee, Jean,
My soul langs to be free, Jean,
And angels wait on me

To the land o' the leal.

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