The gray-hair'd men were a' i' the streets,

And auld dames crying sad to see,

The flower o' the lads o' Inverness
Lie bloody on Culloden lee!

She tore her haffet links o' gowd,
And dighted aye her comely e'e;
My father lies at bloody Carlisle-

At Preston sleep my brethren three !
I thought my heart could haud nae mair,
Mae tears could never blind my e'e;
But the fa' o' ane has burst my heart,
A dearer ane there ne'er could be!

He trysted me o' love yestreen,

O' love tokens he gave me three;
But he's faulded i' the arms o' weir,
O, ne'er again to think o' me!
The forest flowers shall be my bed,

My food shall be the wild berrie,
The fa'ing leaves shall hap me owre,
And wauken'd again I winna be.

weep, 0 weep, ye Scottish dames! Weep till ye blind a mither's e'e; Nae reeking ha' in fifty miles,

But naked corses, sad to see!

O, spring is blithesome to the year;

Trees sprout, flowers spring, and birds sing hie;

But, O what spring can raise them up,
When death for ever shuts the e'e?

The hand o' God hung heavy here,
And lightly touch'd foul tyrannie:
It struck the righteous to the ground,
And lifted the destroyer hie.

But there's a day, quo' my God, in prayer,
When righteousness shall bear the gree:
I'll rake the wicked low i' the dust,

And wauken in bliss the gude man's e'e.

The battle of Culloden-moor extinguished for ever the hopes of the house of Stuart; and our Jacobite songs were ever after sobered down into a sorrowful and desponding strain. The blood shed at the battle, and the desolation which the unbridled soldiery spread over so much of Scotland, made an impression on the hearts of the people which was long in effacing. In the ruin of so many families, and the destruction of so many houses, the Cameronians beheld the fulfilment of their great apostle's prophecy the song, therefore, sings no fabulous woes. It was first published in the Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway song.

JOHNIE COPE.

Cope sent a challenge frae Dunbar-
Come, Charlie, meet me gin ye daur,
And I'll learn you the art of war,

If you'll meet me in the morning.
My men are bauld, my steeds are rude;
They'll dye their hoofs in highland blood,
And eat their hay in Holyrood

By ten to-morrow morning.

When Charlie looked the letter on,
He drew his sword the scabbard from-
Come follow me my merry merry men

To meet Johnie Cope in the morning.
Hey, Johnie Cope, are ye waking yet,
Or are your drums abeating yet?
Wi' claymore sharp and music sweet

We'll make ye mirth i' the morning.

Atween the gray day and the sun
The highland pipes came skirling on;
Now fye, Johnie Cope, get up and run,
"Twill be a bloody morning.

O yon's the warpipes' deadlie strum,
It quells our fife and drowns our drum ;
The bonnets blue and broadswords come-
"Twill be a bloody morning.

VOL. III.

Now, Johnie Cope, be as good's your word,
And try our fate wi' fire and sword;

And takna wing like a frighten'd bird

That's chased frae its nest in the morning.
The warpipes gave a wilder screed,
The clans came down wi' wicked speed;
He laid his leg out o'er a steed-
I wish you a good morning.

Moist wi' his fear and spurring fast,
An auld man speered as Johnie past—
How speeds it wi' your gallant host?
I trow they've got their corning.
I'faith, quo' Johnie, I got a fleg
Frae the claymore and philabeg:
If I face them again, deil break my leg,
So I wish you a good morning.

Johnie Cope is an universal favourite in Scotland; and no song in existence has so many curious variations. Yet it must be confessed that the charm lies more with

the music than the poetry. The present copy is made out of various versions; and some liberties have been taken in rendering it more pointed and consistent. Prince Charles displayed great presence of mind and great personal bravery in the battle of Prestonpans, which the impetuous charge of the clans rendered very short and decisive.

KIRN-MILK GEORDIE.

It's James and George, they war twa lords,
And they've coosten out about the kirn;
But Geordie he proved the strongest loon,
And he's gart Jamie stand a hin'.
And hey now, Geordie, Geordie, Geordie,
Ply the cutty as lang as ye can;
For Donald the piper will win the butter,
And nought but kirn-milk for ye than.

And aye he suppit, and aye he swat,
And aye he ga'e the tither a girn,

And aye he fykit, and aye he grat,

When Donald the piper ca'd round the kirn— And up wi' Geordie, kirn-milk Geordie,

He is the king-thief o' them a';

He steal'd the key, and hautet the kirn,
And siccan a feast he never saw.

He kicked the butler, hanged the groom,
And turn'd the true men out o' the ha';
And Jockie and Sawney were like to greet,
To see their backs set at the wa'.
And up wi' Geordie, kirn-milk Geordie,
He has drucken the maltman's ale;
But he'll be nickit ahint the wicket,
And tuggit ahint his gray
mare's tail.