When rankit amang the blue bonnets,
Nae danger can fear me awa,
I ken that my brethren around me
Are either to conquer or fa'.-
Brogs an' brochen an' a',
Brochen an' brogs an' a';
An' isna the laddie weel aff
Wha has brogs an' brochen an' a'?
Short syne we war wonderfu' canty,
Our friends an' our country to see,
But since the proud consul's grown vaunty,
We'll meet him by land or by sea.
Wherever a clan is disloyal,
Wherever our king has a foe,
He'll quickly see Donald Macdonald
Wi' his Highlanders all in a row.-
Guns an' pistols an' a',
Pistols an' guns an' a';
He'll quickly see Donald Macdonald
Wi' guns an' pistols an' a'.
What though we befriendit young
To tell it I dinna think shame ;
Poor lad! he came to us but barely,
An' reckon'd our mountains his hame:
'Tis true that our reason forbade us,
But tenderness carried the day;
Had Geordie come friendless amang us,
Wi' him we had a' gane away.—
Sword an' buckler an' a',
Buckler an' sword an' a';
For George we 'll encounter the devil,
Wi' sword an' buckler an' a'.
An' O I wad eagerly press him
The keys o' the East to retain;
For shou'd he gi'e up the possession,
We'll soon ha'e to force them again;
Than yield up an inch wi' dishonour,
Though it war my finishin' blow,
He ay may depend on Macdonald,
Wi's Highlandmen all in a row.—
Knees an' elbows an' a',
Elbows an' knees an' a';
Depend upon Donald Macdonald,
His knees an' elbows an' a'.
If Bonapart land at Fort-William,
Auld Europe nae langer shall grane;
I laugh, whan I think how we'll gall him
Wi' bullet, wi' steel, an' wi' stane;
Wi' rocks o' the Nevis an' Gairy,
We'll rattle him aff frae our shore;
Or lull him asleep in a cairney,
An' sing him-Lochaber no more!
Stanes an' bullets an' a',
Bullets an' stanes an' a';
We'll finish the Corsican callan',
Wi' stanes an' bullets an' a'.
The Gordon is gude in a hurry;
An' Campbell is steel to the bane;
An' Grant, an' Mackenzie, an' Murray,
An' Cameron, will hurkle to nane.
The Stuart is sturdy an' wannle,
An' sae is Macleod an' Mackay;
An' I, their gude-brither Macdonald
Sal never be last i' the fray.
Brogs an' brochen an' a',
Brochen an' brogs an' a';
An' up wi' the bonny blue bonnet,
The kilt, an' the feather, an' a'.
QUEEN MARY'S RETURN TO SCOTLAND.
After a youth by woes o'ercast,
After a thousand sorrows past,
The lovely Mary once again
Set foot upon her native plain;
Knelt on the pier with modest grace,
And turn'd to Heaven her beauteous face.
'Twas then the caps in air were blended,
A thousand thousand shouts ascended,
Shiver'd the breeze around the throng,
Grey barrier cliffs the peals prolong;
And every tongue gave thanks to Heaven,
That Mary to their hopes was given.
Her comely form and graceful mien
Bespoke the lady and the queen;
The woes of one so fair and young,
Moved every heart and every tongue.
Driven from her home, a helpless child,
To brave the winds and billows wild;
An exile bred in realms afar,
Amid commotions, broils, and war.
In one short year, her hopes all cross'd—
A parent, husband, kingdom, lost!
And all ere eighteen years had shed
Their honours o'er her royal head.
For such a queen, the Stuarts' heir-
A queen so courteous, young, and fair—
Who would not every foe defy?
Who would not stand-who would not die?
Light on her airy steed she sprung,
Around with golden tassels hung;
No chieftain there rode half so free,
Or half so light and gracefully.
How sweet to see her ringlets pale
Wide waving in the southland gale,
Which through the broom-wood blossoms flew,
To fan her cheeks of rosy hue!
Whene'er it heaved her bosom's screen,
What beauties in her form were seen!
And when her courser's mane it swung,
A thousand silver bells were rung.
A sight so fair, on Scottish plain,
A Scot shall never see again!
When Mary turn'd her wond'ring eyes
On rocks that scem'd to prop the skies;
On palace, park, and battled pile;
On lake, on river, sea, and isle;
O'er woods and meadows bathed in dew,
To distant mountains wild and blue;
She thought the isle that gave her birth,
The sweetest, wildest land on earth.
When the gusts of October had rifled the thorn,
Had dappled the woodland and umber'd the plain,
In den of the mountain was Kennedy born,
There hush'd by the tempest, baptized with the rain.
His cradle a mat that swung light on the oak;
His couch the sere mountain-fern spread on the rock;
The white knobs of ice from the chill'd nipple hung,
And loud winter torrents his lullaby sung.
Unheeded he shiver'd, unheeded he cried;
Soon died on the breeze of the forest his moan;
To his wailings the weary wood echo replied;
His watcher the wondering redbreast alone.
Oft gazed his young eye on the whirl of the storm,
And all the wild shades that the desert deform;
From cleft in the correi which thunders had riven,
It oped on the pale flitting billows of heaven.
The nursling of misery, young Kennedy, learn'd
His hunger, his thirst, and his passions, to feed;
With pity for others his heart never yearn'd—
Their pain was his pleasure, their sorrow his meed.
His eye was the eagle's, the twilight his hue;
His stature like pine of the hill where he grew;
His soul was the neal-fire inhaled from his den,
And never knew fear save for ghost of the glen.
THE WITCH'S MIDNIGHT JOURNEY.
The second nycht, quhan the new moon set,
O'er the roaryng sea we flew;
The cockle-shell our trusty bark,
Our sailis of the grein sea-rue.
And the bauld windis blew, and the fire flauchtis flew, And the sea ran to the skye;
And the thunner it growlit, and the sea-dogs howlit, As we gaed scouryng by.
And aye we mountit the sea-greene hillis,
Quhill we brushit thro' the cludis of the hevin;
Than sousit dounright, like the stern-shot light,
Fra the liftis blue casement driven.
But our taickil stood, and our bark was good,
And se pang was our pearily prowe,
Quhan we culdna speil the brow of the wavis,
We needilit them thro' belowe.
As fast as the hail, as fast as the gale,
As fast as the midnycht leme,
We borit the breiste of the burstyng swale,
Or fluffit i' the flotyng faem.
And quhan to the Norraway shore we wan,
We muntyd our steedis of the wynd,
And we splashit the floode, and we darnit the woode,
And we left the shoir behynde.
Fleet is the roe on the green Lommond,
And swift is the couryng grew;
The rein-deir dun can eithly run,
Quhan the houndis and the hornis pursue.
But nowther the roe, nor the rein-deir dun,
The hinde, nor the couryng grew,
Culde fly ower muntaine, muir, and dale,
As ouir braw steedis they flew.
The dales war deep, and the Doffrinis steep,
And we raise to the skyis ee-bree;
Quhite, quhite was ouir rode, that was never trode,
Ower the snawis of eternity!
All silent they went, for the time was approaching; The moon the blue zenith already was touching; No foot was abroad on the forest or hill,
No sound but the lullaby sung by the rill:
Young Malcolm at distance couch'd, trembling the while, Macgregor stood lone by the brook of Glen-Gyle.
Few minutes had pass'd, ere they spied on the stream A skiff sailing light, where a lady did seem; Her sail was the web of the gossamer's loom, The glow-worm her wakelight, the rainbow her boom; A dim rayless beam was her prow and her mast, Like wold-fire at midnight, that glares on the waste. Though rough was the river with rock and cascade, No torrent, no rock, her velocity stay'd; She wimpled the water to weather and lee, And heaved as if borne on the waves of the sea.
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