That he would fight them gun and sword,

But he fled frae his nest like an ill scar’d bird,

And Johnie he took wing in the morning.

It was upon an afternoon,

Sir Johnie march’d to Preston town;

He says, my lads come lean you down,

And we’ll fight the boys in the morning.

But when he saw the Highland lads

Wi tartan trews and white cokauds,

Wi swords and guns and rungs and gauds,

O Johnie he took wing in the morning.

On the morrow when he did rise,

He look’d between him and the skies;

He saw them wi their naked thighs,

Which fear’d him in the morning.

O then he flew into Dunbar,

Crying for a man of war;

He thought to have pass’d for a rustic tar,

And gotten awa in the morning.

Sir Johnie into Berwick rade,

Just as the devil had been his guide;

Gien him the warld he would na stay’d

To foughten the boys in the morning.

Says the Berwickers unto Sir John,

O what’s become of all your men,

In faith, says he, I dinna ken,

I left them a’ this morning.

Says Lord Mark Car, ye are na blate,

To bring us the news o your ain defeat;

I think you deserve the back o the gate,

Get out o my sight this morning.

MY HEART’S IN THE HIGHLANDS
Tune: Failte na miosg

CHORUS

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;

My heart’s in the Highlands, a chasing the deer;

Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe;

My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go. –

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North;

The birthplace of valour, the country of worth:

Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,

The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. –

Farewell to the mountains, high-cover’d with snow,

Farewell to the straths and green valleys below:

Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;

Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. –

AWA, WHIGS, AWA

CHORUS

Awa, Whigs, awa!

Awa, Whigs, awa!

Ye’re but a pack o traitor louns,

Ye’ll do nae guid at a’.

Our thrissles flourish’d fresh and fair,

And bonie bloom’d our roses;

But Whigs cam like a frost in June,

An wither’d a’ our posies.

Our ancient crown’s fa’n in the dust

Deil blin’ them wi the stoure o’t,

An write their names in his black beuk

Wha gae the Whigs the power o’t.

Our sad decay in church and state

Surpasses my descriving.

The Whigs cam o’er us for a curse,

An we hae done wi thriving.

Grim Vengeance lang has taen a nap,

But we may see him wauken:

Gude help the day when Royal heads

Are hunted like a maukin.

THE WHITE COCKADE

CHORUS

Ohe’s a ranting, roving lad,

He is a brisk an a bonny lad,

Betide what may, I will be wed,

And follow the boy wi the White Cockade.

My love was born in Aberdeen,

The boniest lad that e’er was seen,