a curiosity, and as showing out of what rude materials Scott constructed the modern song, which has since become so celebrated. GENERAL LESLIE'S MARCH TO LONGMARSTON MOOR. March, march, why the deil dinna ye march? Stand to your arms, my lads; fight in good order, Front about, ye musketeers all, Till ye come to the English Border, Stand till't and fight like men, True gospel to maintain; The Parliament's blythe to see us a-coming. We'll purge it ilka room Frae Popish relics and a' sic innovation, That a' the world may see There's nane in the right but we Of the auld Scottish nation. Jenny shall wear the hood, Jockie the sark of God; And the kist fu' o' whistles that maks sic a cleiro, Our pipers braw Shall hae them a'. Whate'er come on it, Busk up your plaids, my lads, Cock up your bonnets. OH, WHERE, TELL ME WHERE? MRS. GRANT of Laggan; born 1755, died 1838. Air-"The blue-bells of Scotland." OH, where, tell me where is your Highland laddie gone ? Oh, where, tell me where did your Highland laddie stay? Oh, what, tell me what does your Highland laddie wear? Suppose, ah, suppose, that some cruel, cruel wound Should pierce your Highland laddie, and all your hopes confound. But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonnie bounds, This song, founded on a more ancient one with the same title, was written for the collection of Mr. George Thomson after the death of Burns. The subject was the departure for the Continent, with his regiment, of the Marquis of Huntly in 1799. THE BATTLE OF VITTORIA. WILLIAM GLEN. Air-" Whistle o'er the lave o't." SING, a' ye bards, wi' loud acclaim, Let blust'rin' Suchet crously crack, He left upon Vittoria ; If e'er they meet their worthy king, Gi'e truth an' honour to the Dane, Gi'e German's monarch heart and brain; But aye in sic a cause as Spain, Gi'e Britons a Vittoria. The English Rose was ne'er sae red, Loud was the battle's stormy swell, The Paris maids may ban them a', Wi' quakin' heart and tremblin' knees, While the "meteor-flag" floats to the breeze, Peace to the spirits o' the brave, There let eternal laurels bloom, Ye Caledonian war-pipes, play; An' the gallant Scot show'd there that day Shout to the heroes-swell ilk voice To them wha made poor Spain rejoice; BACK AGAIN. ANONYMOUS. About the year 1801. WHEN Abercromby, gallant Scot, But now I'm safe come back again. For I am safe come back again. It's true they've ta'en frae me a leg; But wha for that would mak' a maen? Cheer up your heart, my bonnie Meg, I've brought a leal heart back again. And though the wound it carried smart, And twitch'd me sair wi' rackin' pain, Wi' honour's scars I wadna part, Nor yet my leg take back again, Cheer up your heart since I am here, Wi' smiles your cheek gae deck again; Cheer up, my lass, an' dinna fear, Your Donald's safe come back again. Though mony a rattlin' blast has blawn, There's plenty in the stack again; My wee lock siller's a' your ain Now sin' I'm safe come back again. Now may the wars for ever cease, Sin' Donald's safe come back again. If I should ne'er come back again. CALEDONIA! thou land of the mountain and rock, Thou land of the torrent, the pine, and the oak, Though bare are thy cliffs, and though barren thy glens, Yet kind are the hearts and undaunted the clans A foe from abroad, or a tyrant at home, Of genius unshackled and free, The Muses have left all the vales of the south, My loved Caledonia, for thee! Sweet land of the bay and the wild-winding deeps, While far in the depth of the blue water sleeps |