Tuesday, November 16, 2010


The young MacGregor o' Glen Strae, wi' eighty o' his men.
Upon the Argyle's sleekit word, pit Finlas Glen aflame.
The burnin', theivin', heilan' rant drove a' the beasts awa'.
And left ahint twa dirkit men tae perish in the snaw.

By Fallisdaill the letter come frae black Dumbarton toon,
To show the way they were tae gae, tae bring MacGregor doon.
The bloody Sarks o' butchered men tae Jamie's court maun gae,
The widow women for tae show and tell of the affray.

Collquoune o' Luss could thole nae mair wi' trampeled savaged pride,
Buchanan levies mounted up to tan MacGregor hide.
From Leven's vale, Dumbarton toon, and a' these lowland parts,
The burgesses and fairmers came wi' vengance in their hearts.

The Campbell and the Cameron, MacDonald o' Glencoe
Ranked alang wi' Gregorach and marched o'er the snow.
Far o'er the loch frae Arket Glen and doon the pass Parlan
By Loch Long who's shores are held by the theives o' Macfarlane.

Collquoune wi' his windy lowland mob lined o'er the Fruin Glen
Five hundred foot, arrayed aboot, three hundred mounted men.
Yon godless hoard o' Gregorach, and others o' their kind,
Will creep nae mair frae their heiland lair wi' murderin in their minds.

Aye whither be it for some stirks or just a ween o' blacks
They're ay'ways quick, their dirks to stick, in ain anithers backs.
For honest men and good Scots law, we'll tramp the vermin oot
Just steady, bide, God's on oor side, o' that there is nae doubt.

Then like a torrent frae the glen, MacGregor's scarlet charge,
The Sassenach could ne'er withstand the claymore and the targe.
And all around the hellish screams o' torn and dyin' men,
Their precious blood seeped in the mud and drained in Fruin Glen.

And every beast was led awa', a full twa thousand heid.
And the sairest price the victors paid was twa MacGregor's deid.
But bide ye yet, the victor's feast, the worst was still tae show,
For the king proclaimed the Gregorach henceforth tae be outlaw
Aye the bold MacGregor and his clan were a' declared outlaw.

Saturday, April 04, 2009

Jock O' Hazeldean
Sir Walter Scott

Why weep ye by the tide, lady?
Why weep ye by the tide?
I'll wed thee to my youngest son
And ye shall be his bride.
And ye shall be his bride, lady,
So comely to be seen.
But aye, she loot the tears doon fa'
For Jock O' Hazeldean.

Now let this willfu' grief be done
And dry your cheek so pale.
Young Frank is chief of Errington,
And lord o' Langleydale.
His step is first in peaceful ha',
His sword in battle keen.
But aye, she loot the tears doon fa'
For Jock O' Hazeldean.

A chain o' gold ye shall not lack
Nor braid to bind your hair,
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
Nor palfrey fresh and fair.
And ye, the foremost of them a'
Shall ride our forest queen.
But aye, she loot the tears doon fa'
For Jock O' Hazeldean.

The kirk was decked at morning tide,
The tapers glimmered fair.
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride
And dame and knight were there.
They sought her baith by bower and ha',
The lady was not seen.
For she's o'er the border and awa'
Wi' Jock O' Hazeldean.
Kate Dalrymple

William Watt


In a wee cot house far across the muir
Where pease-weeps, plovers, an' waups cry dreary,
There liv'd an' auld maid for mony lang years,
Wha ne'er a woo-er did e'er ca', dearie.
A lanely lass was Kate Dalrymple,
A thrifty quean was Kate Dalrymple;
Nae music, exceptin' the clear burnie's wimple,
Was heard round the dwellin' o' Kate Dalrymple.

Her face had a smack o' the gruesome an' grim,
That did frae the fash o' a' woo-ers defend her;
Her long Roman nose nearly met wi' her chin,
That brang folk in mind o' the auld witch o' Endor.
A wiggle in her walk had Kate Dalrymple,
A sniggle in her talk had Kate Dalrymple;
An' mony a cornelian an' cairngorm pimple,
Did blaze on the dun face o' Kate Dalrymple.

She span terry woo' the hale winter thro'
For Kate ne'er was lazy, but eident and thrifty;
She wrocht 'mang the peats, coil'd the hay, shor the corn,
An' supported her sel' by her ain hard shift aye.
But ne'er a lover came to Kate Dalrymple,
For beauty an' tocher wanted Kate Dalrymple;
Unheeded was the quean, baith by gentle and simple,
A blank in existence seem'd puir Kate Dalrymple.

But mony are the ups an' the downs in life,
When the dice-box o' fate's jumbled a' tapsal-teerie,
Sae Kate fell heiress to a rich frien's estate,
An' nae langer for woo-ers had she cause to weary.
The Laird came a-wooin' soon o' Kate Dalrymple,
The Lawyer, scrapin', bowin', fan oot Kate Dalrymple;
Owre ilk woo-ers face was seen love's smilin' dimple,
Sae noo she's nae mair, Kate, but Miss Dalrymple.

She often times thocht when she dwelt by hersel',
She could wed Willie Speedyspool, the sarkin' weaver;
An noo unto Will she the secret did tell,
Wha for love or for interest did kindly receive her.
He flung by his beddles soon for Kate Dalrymple,
He brent a' his treddles doon for Kate Dalrymple;
Tho' his richt e'e doth skellie an' his left leg doth limp ill,
He's won the heart an' got the hand o' Kate Dalrymple.


O late at e'en,and drinking the wine
Ere we made the lawing
We set a pact o' the two between
Tae fecht it in the dawning.

O stay hame, stay hame my bonny bairn
Bide wi' me the morrow
For my cruel brothers will ye betray
On the Dowie Dens o' Yarrow

O as he gaed doon by Tenny's field
I wa't he gaed wi' sorrow
For there in a den, were nine armed men
Tae fecht wi' him on Yarrow.

Well have ye cam' tae part yer land ?
Or cam' ye here tae borrow ?
Or did ye cam'tea wield yer brand
On the Dowie Dens o' Yarrow ?

I hav'na' cam' tae part my land
Not yet tae beg or borrow
But I cam' here tae wield my brand
On the Dowie Dens o' Yarrow.

If I see ye all,yer nine tae wan
And that's an unfair marrow
But I will fecht while lasts my brand
On the Dowie Dens o' Yarrow.

Well five did he hack,and four did he slay
On the bloody braes o' Yarrow
Till that fause knight cam' in ahint
And ran his body through-o.

Gae hame ,gae hame,guid brother John
Find yer sister Sarah
Her lief lord lies cruely slain
On the bloody braes o' Yarrow.

As she gaed doon yon high high hill
I wa't she gaed wi' sorrow
For there in a den,there were ten slain men
On the bloody braes o' Yarrow.
Stirling Brig

Doon by Stirling Brig, the Wallace lay in hiding
As the Englishmen, frae the south came riding
Loud the river Forth, between them baith was gurling
Gurling oot o' sicht, below the Brig O Stirling

Watching frae the wood, the Wallace and the Moray
As the English Cam' wi' the Earl O' Surrey
Ane by ane they crossed, a' the brig was filling
Still they onward cam' o'er the Brig O' Stirling

Wallace gave the shout, oot his men cam running
Stopped the English host on the Brig O' Stirling
Cressingham turned round, the brig was sma' for turning
Moray cut him down on the Brig O' Stirling

All the English men ran intae each other
Nane could turn about, nane could gae much further
Some fell o'er the side in the Forth was drowning
Some were left tae dee on the Brig O' Stirling

Surrey he was wild, could nae ford the river
Wished wi' all his mecht that the brig was bigger
Then he rade awa, loud the man was cursin'
He'd lost a' his men, and the Brig o' Stirling.
The Bantam Cock

He was a fine upstanding bantam-cock
So brisk, and stiff, and spry...
With a springy step, and a jaunty plume,
And a purposeful look in his eye
In his little black laughing eye!

So I took him to the coop and introduced him to
My seventeen wide-eyed hens
And he tupped and he tupped as a hero tupps,
And he bowed to them all, and then,
He up and took 'em all again!

Then upon the peace of my ducks and geese
He boldly did intrude
And with glazed eyes and opened mouths
They bore him with fortitude...
And a little bit of gratitude!

He jumped my giggling guinea-fowl!
He thrust his attentions upon
Twenty hysterical turkeys,
And a visiting migrant swan!
And the bantam thundered on!

He groped my fan-tail pigeon doves,
My lily-white Columbine,
And as I was lookin' at me budgerigar,
He jumped my parrot from behind!
And it was sittin' on me shoulder at the time!

But all of a sudden, with a gasp and a gulp,
He clapped his wings to his head!
He lay flat on his back with his feet in the air;
My bantam-cock was dead!
And the vultures circled overhead!

What a noble beast!
What a champion cock!
What a way to live and die!
As I dug him a grave to protect his bones,
From those hungry buzzards in the sky,
The bantam opened up his eyes!

He gave me a wink, and a terrible grin,
The way that rapists do....
He said, "Do you see them silly daft buggers up there?
They'll be down in a minnit 'er two!
They'll be down in a minnit 'er two!"
The Sherramuir Fight

Robert Burns

O, cam ye here the fight to shun,
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man?
Or were ye at the Sherra-moor,
Or did the battle see, man?'
I saw the battle, sair and teugh,
And reekin-red ran monie a sheugh;
My heart for fear gae sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds
O' clans frae woods in tartan duds,
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man

The red-coat lads wi' black cockauds
To meet them were na slaw, man
They rush'd and push'd and bluid outgush'd,
And monie a bouk did fa', man!
The great Argyle led on his files,
I wat they glanc'd for twenty miles;
They hough'd the clans like nine-pin kyles,
They hack'd and hash'd, while braid-swords clash'd,
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd,
Till fey men died awa, man.

But had ye seen the philibegs
And skyrin tartan trews, man,
When in the teeth they daur'd our Whigs
And Covenant trueblues, man!
In lines extended lang and large,
When baig'nets o'erpower'd the targe,
And thousands hasten'd tae the charge,
Wi' Hieland wrath they frae the sheath
Drew blades o' death, till out o' breath
They fled like frighted dows, man

They've lost some gallant gentlemen,
Amang the Highland clans, man!
I fear my Lord Panmure is slain,
Or in his en'mies' hands, man.
Now wad ye sing this double flight,
Some fell for wrang, and some for right,
But monie bade the world guid-night:
Say, pell and mell, wi' muskets' knell
How Tories fell, and Whigs to Hell
Flew off in frighted bands, man
The Vicar and the Frog
(Stan Crowther)

There once was a very, very holy vicar
Went a-walking along the street one day.
When he heard a little voice say "Excuse me, vicar.
Help me, vicar." the voice did say.
And the vicar looked 'round, but all he could see
Was a tiny little frog sitting on the ground.
"My dear little froggy, did you speak to me?
Was it you that spoke when I heard that sound?"

"Oh yes," said the froggy, "Oh help me, vicar.
I'm really not a frog, you see.
I'm a choir-boy, really, but a wicked fairy
Cast a nasty spell on me.
And the only way that I can be saved
From this evil spell," the little frog said,
"Is for someone to take me and put me in a place
Where a holy man has laid his head."

So the vicar took him home, and put him on his pillow;
There he laid till the break of day,
And the very next morning, a blessed miracle,
The spell was broken, I'm glad to say.
And there was the choir-boy in bed with the vicar,
And I hope you think this all makes sense.
For there, my lords and members of the jury,
Rests the case for the defense.


O Peggy Gordon, You are my darling
Come sit you down upon my knee
And tell to me the very reason
Why I am slighted so by thee

I am so deep in love that I can't deny it
My heart lies smothered in my breast
But it's not for you to let the whole world know it
A troubled mind can find no rest


O Peggy Gordon, You are my darling
Come sit you down upon my knee
And tell to me the very reason
Why I am slighted so by thee

I leaned myself on a cask of brandy
It was my fancy, I do declare
For when I'm drinking, I'm always thinking
Wishing Peggy Gordon was there


O Peggy Gordon, You are my darling
Come sit you down upon my knee
And tell to me the very reason
Why I am slighted so by thee

I wished I was in a lonesome valley
Where womankind cannot be found
And the pretty little birds do change their voices
And every moment a different sound


O Peggy Gordon, You are my darling
Come sit you down upon my knee
And tell to me the very reason
Why I am slighted so by thee

I wish I was away in Ingo
Far away across the briny sea
Sailing over deepest waters
Where love nor care never trouble me


O Peggy Gordon, You are my darling
Come sit you down upon my knee
And tell to me the very reason
Why I am slighted so by thee

Monday, March 30, 2009


Scotland will flourish by the sweat of labor
The strength of our will and the force of our mind
Forget the old battles, those days are over
Hatred corrupts and friendship refines

Let the Scots be a nation proud of their heritage
With an eye to the future and a heart to forgive
And let us be rid of those bigots and fools
Who will not let Scotland live and let live

Let us govern over country wisely and fairly
Let each man and woman work with a will
And Scotland will flourish secure in the knowledge
That we reap our own harvest and ring our own till

And let us be known for our kind hospitality
A hand that is open proper to friends
A hard working people, proud and unbending
Scotland will thrive and win out in the end

Scotland will flourish by the sweat of labor
The strength of our will and the force of our mind
Forget the old battles, those days are over
Hatred corrupts and friendship refines

So let us be known for our kind hospitality
A hand that is open proper to friends
A hard working people, proud and unbending
Scotland will thrive and win out in the end
A Scottish Holiday

So you think your going tae the North to spend a holiday
Cause your vaguely Scottish on your Mother's side
And you've heard of ancient glories both renowned in song and story
Kilts and Haggis, Andy Stewart and Rock Clyde

Ye go up by Crye and Larrick that's the gateway to North
And the scenery with please your eyes I'm sure
Ye take oot your picnic basket cause your car has blown a gasket
In the middle of a place called Rannoch Moor

So you telephone the garage listed in the tourist guide
That was published for you by the R.A.C.
But by design or by intention or they just forgot to mention
That the garage closes down by half past three

So you're towed behind this tractor to a corrugated shed
That's surrounded by farm implements and carts
And you scratch your head and wonder why you ever bought a Honda
Cause they'll to send to Tokyo for the parts

So you board the train for Obin and get the boat to Mull
Feeling like you've had a night upon the tiles
You paid eighty pence for coffee with a tang of diesel oil
You're experiencing the swindle of the Isles.

But pulse begins to quicken with the thoughts of berry pickin'
So you take a trip to Gorry for a spell
With some Wellies of your mother's the she bought at Ally Brothers
And a Gideon Bible pinched from your hotel

So you're stand pickin' rasps being stung to death by wasps
The midges and the clags are makin' free
And the bairns have ate the berries and contracted dysentery
Cause last week they sprayed the crop with DDT

So you're heading back to Birmingham more water logged than tanned
But no signs of habitation can you see
When you thought you were in Barrick your were actually in Larrick
Cause some vandal change the signpost in Dundee
Bonnie Dundee

1. Tae the lairds i' convention t'was Claverhouse spoke
E'er the Kings crown go down, there'll be crowns to be broke;
Then let each cavalier who loves honour and me
Come follow the bonnets o' bonnie Dundee.

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
Saddle my horses and call out my men.
And it's Ho! for the west port and let us gae free,
And we'll follow the bonnets o' bonnie Dundee!

2. Dundee he is mounted, he rides doon the street,
The bells they ring backwards, the drums they are beat,
But the Provost, (douce man!), says ;Just e'en let him be
For the toon is well rid of that de'il o' Dundee.


3. There are hills beyond Pentland and lands beyond Forth,
Be there lairds i' the south, there are chiefs i' the north!
There are brave Duniewassals, three thousand times three
Will cry "Hoy!" for the bonnets o' bonnie Dundee.


4. Then awa' tae the hills, tae the lea, tae the rocks
E'er I own a usurper, I'll couch wi' the fox!
Then tremble, false Whigs, in the midst o' your glee
Ye hae no seen the last o' my bonnets and me.

Scotland The Brave (humorous)
Roy Williamson

Land o' the purple heather.
Land o' the dirty weather.
Land where the midges gaither, Scotland the Brave.
Land o' the Pakistanis,
Andy Capp and Saturday sannies.
Land where they sell their grannies, Scotland the Brave.

Used to say in faither's day,
You could hear the bagpipes play,
But now you hear the regal tones o' Elton John and The Rolling Stones.
Land that is full o' stinkers,
Wee fat Jews and VP drinkers.
Whisky put a lot o' stinkers, into Scottish graves.

Land that is full o' skivers,
Comic singers, deep sea divers,
Turbans on our bus condrivers, Scotland the Brave.
Land o' the brutal Bobbies,
Councillers wi' part-time jobbies,
Architects wi' paying hobbies, Scotland the Brave.

The tourists come here every year
To see all our historic gear,
But all they see is loads o' navvies, high rise flats wi' concrete lavvies.
Land o' the artic' lorries,
Andy Stewart and ra Corries,
Land where everybody borries, Scotland the Brave.

Land o' the Kilt and Sporran -
Underneath, there's nothin' worn!
How I wish the wind was warm! Scotland the Brave.
I must admit it's pretty gruesome,
Walking about wi' your frozen twosome!
It's all we've got - we musn't lose 'em - Scotland the Brave.

Conservatives try to assure us,
Labour's hard-put to endure us,
The Kirk puts curbs on our enjoyment, Government makes unemployment.
Never mind - the day is near,
When independence will be here!
We'll drink a toast in Younger's beer to Scotland the Brave!

Monday, March 02, 2009

Twa recruiting sergeants came frae the Black Watch
Through markets and fairs, some recruits for to catch.
But all they enlisted was forty and twa
Sae, list my bonnie laddie and come awa with me

And it's over the mountain and over the Main,
Through Gibralter, to France and Spain.
Pit a feather tae your bonnet, and a kilt aboon your knee,
Enlist my bonnie laddie and come awa with me.

Oh laddie ye dinna ken the danger that yer in.
If yer horses was to gleg, or yer owsen was to rin,
That greedy ole farmer, he wouldna pay yer fee.
Sae list my bonnie laddie and come awa with me


And its into the barn and out o' the byre,
That greedy ole farmer thinks ye never will tire.
It's a slavery job of low degree.
Sae list my bonnie laddie and come awa with me


Yeah well laddie, do you have a sweetheart at home
Ye'll easily get rid of that ill-spun yarn
Twa rattles on the drum, and that'll set ye'free
Sae list my bonnie laddie and come awa


Saturday, August 16, 2008


CHORUS: Have another drink, boys. Well, have one with me.
We're home from the sea. Yes, we're back on the shore;
And if you get too drunk, boys, in this company,
You'll roar 'round Cape Horn on the Rory O'Mor.

He lived on the dockside near Liverpool town,
And he always went down to the "Thief and the Vagabond."
Everyone knew him as Dublin O'Shea.
Some say he came from Killarney.


I sing of an Irishman honest and plain,
But what's in a name when you think of the man himself?
He was a sinner and he drank with the same,
And he mastered the fine art of blarney.


He was a lay preacher and a God-fearin' man
With a drink in his hand. What a terrible sinner!
He'd drink with the Devil and spit in his eye,
Then go to confession on Friday.


For ramblin' and rovin' there's none to compare.
If you'd met him you'd swear that the man was a saint;
But if you could just see him in some foreign bar,
You'd swear he was the High King of Ireland.

Sunday, January 15, 2006

The Rising of The Moon

Ah then tell me Sean O'Farrell
Tell me why you hurry, so.
Hush my boy now hush and listen
And his eyes were all aglow.

I bear orders from the captain
Get ye ready quick and soon
For the pikes must be together
At the rising of the moon.

Ah then tell me Sean O'Farrell
Where the gatherin' is to be
In the old spot by the river
Right well known by you and me.

One word more, a signal token
Whistle of the marchin' tune
With your pike upon your shoulder
At the rising of the moon.

There beside the singing river
That dark mass of men were seen
Far above their shining weapons
Hung their own immortal green.

Death to every foe and traitor
Forward strike the marchin' tune
And hurrah my boys, for freedom!
Tis the rising of the moon.

How well they fought for poor old Ireland
And full bitter, was their fate
Oh what glorious pride and sorrow
Fills the name of ninety-eight.

Yet thank God while hearts are beating
Each man bears a burning wound
We will follow in their footsteps
At the rising of the moon.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

Kishmul's Galley

Kishmul was legendary pirate or "riever" who plied his trade in the 14th century on the north east coast of Scotland, among the Hebrides. In some stories he appears as a sort of sea-faring Robin Hood...stealing from the rich and giving to the poor. The Bennachie is a range of hills northeast of Aberdeen.

High on the Benachie
On that day of days, seaward I gaze
Watching Kishmul's Galley sailing

Ah-hee Ah-hoo-oh
Vall-eee Ah-hoo-oh

Bravely against wind and tide
They have brought us to 'neath Kishmul's walls
Kishmul's castle of ancient glory

Ah-hee Ah-hoo-oh
Vall-eee Ah-hoo-oh

Homeward she bravely battles,
'Gainst the hurtling waves,
Nor hoop nor yards,
Anchor, cable nor tackle has she.

Ah-hee Ah-hoo-oh
Vall-eee Ah-hoo-oh

Here's red wine, a toast to heroes
And harping too, and harping too
Watching Kishmul's galley sailing

Ah-hee Ah-hoo-oh
Vall-eee Ah-hoo-oh
The Mountains Of Mourne
Percy French

Oh Mary, this London's a wonderful sight,
With people here working by day and by night.
They don't sow potatoes nor barley nor wheat
But there's gangs of them diggin' for gold in the street.
At least, when I asked them that's what I was told
So I just took a hand at this diggin' for gold;
But for all that I've found there, I might as well be
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

I believe that when writin' a wish you expressed
As to how the fine ladies of London are dressed.
Well if you believe me, when asked to a ball
They don't wear no tops to their dresses at all.
Oh, I've seen them myself and you could not, in thrath
Say if they were bound for a ball, or a bath,
Don't be startin' them fashions now, Mary Machree,
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

I've seen England's king from the top of a bus
And I've never known him, but he means to know us.
And tho' by the Saxon we once were oppressed,
Still I cheered, God forgive me, I cheered with the rest.
And now that he's visited Erin's green shore
We'll be much better friends than we've been heretofore
When we've got all we want, we're as quiet as can be
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

You remember young Peter O'Loughlin of course
Well now he is here at the head of the Force.
I met him today, I was crossing the Strand
And he stopped the whole street with a wave of his hand.
And there we stood talking of days that are gone
While the whole population of London looked on;
But for all these great powers, he's wishful, like me
To be back where the dark Mourne sweeps down to the sea.

There's beautiful girls here --- Oh, never you mind ---
With beautiful shapes nature never designed.
And lovely complexions all roses and cream,
But O'Loughlin remarked with regard to the same
That if at those roses you venture to sip
The colors might all come away on your lip
So I'll wait for the wild rose that's waitin' for me
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.