This lovely youth of whom I sing
Is fitted for to be a king;

On his breast he wears a star,-
You'd tak' him for the god of war.
Ochon, &c.

Oh, to see this princely one
Seated on a royal throne!
Disasters a' would disappear;

Then begins the jub❜lee year.
Ochon, &c.

The "Lewis Gordon" of this song was a son of the Duke of Gordon. He was im. plicated in the affair of 1745, but fled to France after the defeat of Culloden.

WHAT'S A' THE STEER, KIMMER?

ANONYMOUS. 1745.

WHAT'S a' the steer, kimmer?

What's a' the steer?

Charlie he is landed,

An', haith, he'll soon be here.
The win' was at his back, carle,
The win' was at his back;
I carena, sin' he's come, carle,
We were na worth a plack.

I'm right glad to hear't, kimmer,
I'm right glad to hear't;
I hae a gude braid claymore,
And for his sake I'll wear't.

Sin' Charlie he is landed,

We hae nae mair to fear;
Sin' Charlie he is come, kimmer,
We'll hae a jub❜lee year.

I HAE NAE KITH, I HAE NAE KIN.

ANONYMOUS. 1745.

I HAE nae kith, I hae nae kin,
Nor ane that's dear to me;
For the bonnie lad that I lo❜e best,

He's far ayont the sea.

He's gane wi' ane that was our ain,

And we may rue the day

When our king's ae daughter came here

To play sic foul play.

Oh, gin I were a bonnie bird

Wi' wings, that I might flee!
Then would I travel o'er the main,
My ae true-love to see.
Then I wad tell a joyfu' tale

To ane that's dear to me,
And sit upon a king's window
And sing my melody.

The adder lies i' the corbie's nest

Aneath the corbie's wing,

And the blast that reaves the corbie's brood
Will soon blaw hame our king.

Then blaw ye east, or blaw ye west,

Or blaw ye o'er the faem,

Oh, bring the lad that I lo❜e best,
And ane I darena name.

WE'LL NEVER SEE PEACE SIN' CHARLIE'S AWA’

From Buchan's "Prince Charles and Flora Macdonald."

By Carnousie's wa's, at the close of the day,
An auld man was singing, wi' locks thin and gray;
And the burden o' his sang, while the tears fast did fa',
Was, there'll never be peace sin' Charlie's awa'.

Our kirk's gaen either to ruin again,

Our state's in confusion, an' bravely we ken,
Though we darena weel tell, wha's to blame for it a';
But we'll never see peace sin' Charlie's awa'.

My sire and five brethren wi' Charlie they gaed,
On the muir o' Culloden now green grows their bed;
I ran wi' my life,-oh, how didna I fa'!

For nae pleasure I've seen sin' my prince was awa'.

Our auld honest master, the laird o' the lan',
He bauldly set aff at the head o' the clan ;

But the knowes o' Carnousie again he ne'er saw,
An' a's gaen to wreck sin' Charlie's awa'.

Yon pale Lammas moon has come threescore times roun'
Sin' my laird tint his lan' and my prince miss'd his crown;
Threescore years
I've wander'd without house or ha',

And I'll never see pleasure sin' Charlie's awa'.

This song, long supposed to have been lost, was recovered by Mr. Peter Buchan. The song by Burns, which immediately follows, was founded upon it.

THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE.

BURNS.

By yon castle-wa', at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, though his head it was gray;
And as he was singing the tears down came-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars,
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars;
We daurna weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,

And now I greet round their green beds in the yaird:
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame—
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

Now life is a burden that bows me down.

Since I tint my bairns and he tint his crown;

But till my last moments my words are the same,— There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

THE WHITE COCKADE.

From Herd's Collection, 1776. Air-"The white cockade."

My love was born in Aberdeen,

The bonniest lad that e'er was seen;

But now he makes our hearts fu' sad-
He's ta'en the field wi' his white cockade.
Oh, he's a ranting, roving blade!
Oh, he's a brisk and a bonnie lad!
Betide what may, my heart is glad
To see my lad wi' his white cockade.

Oh, leeze me on the philabeg,
The hairy hough, and garter'd leg!
But
aye the thing that glads my ee,
Is the white cockade aboon the bree.

I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,
My rippling kame, and spinning-wheel,
To buy my lad a tartan plaid,

A braidsword, and a white cockade.

I'll sell my rokely and my tow,
My gude gray mare and hawket cow,
That ev'ry loyal Buchan lad

May tak' the field wi' his white cockade.

Ower bush, ower bank, ower ditch, ower stank,
She flang amang them a', man;

The butter-box gat mony knocks;
Their riggings paid for a', then.
They got their paiks wi' sudden straiks,
Which, to their grief, they saw, man:
Wi' clinkum-clankum ower their crowns,
The lads began to fa', then.