Artist & Piper, Mike Turpie:
Scots the world oâ€™er singing off the same page 2013 songbook
Chieftain’s message Welcome ladies and gentlemen to our annual Burns Supper. As the years go by I find my self enjoying this event and the works of Rabbie Burns immensely. Learning the address to a haggis, I had no idea what it meant, but after researching the old Scots words and understanding the poem it has left me with a yearning for more of Burns’ works. Joining us tonight is multi award-winning Scottish comedienne, playwright, award-winning blogger, best-selling author and former Scotsman newspaper columnist, Janey Godley. Janey has performed her comedy shows and one-woman play around the world, and tonight Selangor St Andrew’s Society welcomes her to the Intercontinental Hotel, Kuala Lumpur. As we come together to celebrate the life and works of Robert Burns, Scotland’s favourite son, sit back and enjoy your ‘Bill o’ Fare’ and a full night’s entertainment, much of which I am sure ‘The Bard’ himself would enjoy, considering his love of the Lassies! Last but not least a thank you to the organizing committee, who have worked tirelessly to bring this event to fruition. Aye Ali King Chieftain
Office Bearers 2012/2013 Chieftain – Ali King Hon. Secretary – Alan Bernard Hon. Treasurer – Hector Ingram
Committee Kathleen Whyte, Jeff Ross, Yvanka Jeffery, Elaine Cameron, Lorna Mair, Zoe Shuttleworth & Owen Leed
Resident Past Chieftains Johan Murison, Hector Ingram, Tristan Russell, John Thomson, Stewart Forbes, Richard Thompson, Roger McGowan, Paul Henderson & Patrick Russell
Burns Suppers the world o’er Every year thousands of Burns Suppers take place around the world. From Beijing to Bangkok, Shanghai to Sydney, New York to New Delhi and from Perth to Paris, Scots and friends of Scotland will be toasting the Bard, enjoying themselves and thinking of Scotland. Burns Night doesn’t just celebrate the life of the Bard, it introduces or reminds us of his works which truly contain something for everyone, from the romantic to the rebellious and from the humorous to the inspirational. Over the last few years I have been privileged to travel to China, the Middle East, the USA and Europe and on each trip I’ve met many Scots who are now making a life from themselves away from home, but who retain a great love Rt Hon Alex Salmond MSP of Scotland. In Germany recently, for example, I met the First Minister of Scotland Minister President of Lower Saxony, David McAllister, whose father was Scottish. I also had the pleasure of meeting Ernst-August Horneffer, whose love of Scotland, and work with the Scottish Culture Club in Peine, has been recognised by the Parliament of Lower Saxony. It is estimated that there are 50 million in Scotland’s Diaspora globally. They generate huge warmth and respect for our nation all the year round, but especially, perhaps, on Burns night, when they celebrate our national bard. So whether you are using this Burns Supper Songbook at a Burns Supper in Scotland or overseas, I hope you enjoy being part of Scotland’s extended family. Have a great Burns Night! Alex Salmond First Minister of Scotland
Order of Proceedings MC Welcomes Guests Selkirk Grace First Course Served Haggis Ceremony and Address to the Haggis Main Course Served St Johns Alumni Pipe Band Desert Served Toast to the Lassies Reply from the Lassies Raffle Draw Performance by Janey Godley incorporating The Immortal Memory of Robert Burns Auld Lang Syne
Speeches & Toasts Master of Ceremonies – Mrs Bernie Williams Selkirk Grace – John Thompson
“Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o’ the pudding-race! Aboon them a’ yet tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o’a grace As lang’s my arm.”
Toast to the Lassies – Chuck Jeffery Reply on behalf of the Lassies – Yvanka Jeffrey Immortal Memory of Robert Burns – Janey Godley
Burns at Hame and Abroad ................ Address to a Haggis................................ Ae Fond Kiss ............................................. A Man’s a Man for a’ that ...................... Auld Lang Syne........................................ A Red, Red Rose....................................... Charlie he’s my Darling.......................... Comin’ thro’ the Rye................................ Frae The Friends and Land I Love...... Green Grow The Rashes, O................... My Highland Lassie, O........................... My Native Land Sae Far Awa............... Scots Wha Hae.......................................... Tam O’ Shanter.......................................... The Banks O’ Doon.................................. The Battle of Sherramuir....................... Ye Jacobites by Name............................ Amazing Grace......................................... Caledonia................................................... Campbelton Loch................................... Coulter’s Candy........................................ Donald, where’s yer troosers?............. Flower of Scotland.................................. For these are my Mountains................ Green Hills of Tyrol ................................. Hey Johnnie Cope................................... I Belong to Glasgow................................ I Love a Lassie............................................ Jist a wee Deoch an’ Doris.................... Killiecrankie............................................... Mairi’s Wedding ...................................... Mingulay Boat Song............................... Mull of Kintyre.......................................... Northern Lights of Old Aberdeen..... Roamin’ in the Gloamin’......................... Scotland the Brave.................................. Skye Boat Song........................................ Song of the Clyde.................................... Stop yer Ticklin’ Jock!............................. The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond... The Bonnie Lass o’Fyvie........................ The Hundred Pipers................................ The Road to Dundee.............................. The Road to the Isles.............................. The Wild Mountain Thyme................... Uist Tramping Song................................ We’re no’ awa’ tae bide awa’................. Westering Home...................................... Billy Kay’s Scots Language QUIZ........
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Scots the world o’er singing off the same page 2013 songbook BANGKOK KUALA LUMPUR GUERNSEY HONGKONG JAVA MANILA MEMPHIS NEW DEHLI PHUKET RIGA SEOUL SHANGHAI ST. PETERSBURG TALLIN TOKYO
Burns at Hame and Abroad by Billy Kay IKE Burns, I was born in Kyle and with a mother from Mauchline and a father from Galston I absorbed the poetry and songs of the bard as part of my being. One of the ironies of an Ayrshire education in the 1950’s however was the fact that on one day a year you received a certificate from the Burns Federation for reciting the bard’s poetry, while the rest of the year you got the belt for speaking his language! Yet speak the rich Ayrshire dialect of Scots we did…it was aye yer hame not your home, brig for bridge, kirk for church, mither for mother….the weather was gey dreich rather than dull and miserable, and if you fancied someone at school she was a braw lassie rather than an attractive girl. I am pleased to say that Ayrshire is still thrang wi braw lassies and Scots is still their mither tongue. It was pride in Burns that gave us pride in our Scots tongue. The general anglicising trend in Scottish society was balanced by the knowledge that in Burns we had produced a world class poet who wrote by far his greatest poetry and songs in the Scots tongue that we still spoke. Burns was part of popular culture. At parties in my home in the ’60’s for example, someone would sing a Burns
song like ‘O aw the Airts’ then someone else would sing something by Elvis or the Beatles! The Burns ones though had extra resonance, because the surrounding, familiar landscape was touched by the poet’s presence… “The risin sun ower Galston muirs wi glorious licht wes glintin”….“ye banks and braes o Bonny Doon, how can ye bloom sae fresh and fair”…. “flow gently sweet Afton among thy green braes.” I was steeped in Burns, but what I discovered to my surprise in later life was how global the appeal of Burns actually was and how it “touched the hert” of Scot and non Scot alike: when I was 15 and hitch hiked to France, for example, the only words of English my French pen pal’s father had in his head were “My heart’s in the Highlands my heart is not here.”! When I studied Russian and went on a school trip to Moscow and St Petersburg I was astonished to find a whole room in the Dom Droozhba – the House of Friendship devoted to Burns and his work. When I interviewed a soldier from the Black Watch about his time in the Korean War, he told me about finding an edition of Burns published in Japan and lying amidst the ashes of a
cities as far apart as Melbourne, Mumbai and New York. Now, the Scottish Diaspora has always been interested in Scotland with the passion of the exile, and I have always been fascinated by expressions of Scottishness abroad, and have been fortunate to explore this in several radio documentary series for the BBC and in my book The Scottish World. One of the most encouraging developments in recent years though is the huge increase in interest in the Scottish Diaspora at home in Scotland itself. Two major cultural projects are particularly exciting for me as they will tell some of the stories I have collected on the Scots abroad and “On my lonely walks, I have often express them in totally innovative and thought how fine it would be to have the creative ways. company of Burns.And indeed he was always with me, for I had him by heart. On my The Scottish World first long walk from Indiana to the Gulf of From the scarred landscape of the site Mexico I carried a copy of Burns’ poems and of an open cast mine in Fife, a striking, sang them all the way. The whole country iconic, sculpted landscape is emerging and the people, beasts and birds, seemed to which celebrates the huge influence like them….Wherever a Scotsman goes, the Scots have had on communities and there goes Burns. His grand whole, catholic cultures on every continent. Scottish soul squares with the good of all; therefore Coal has commissioned internationally we find him in everything, everywhere.” renowned designer Charles Jencks to devastated mountain village – it became his talisman throughout the war. When I spent a year travelling around the world after university, I had a Burns supper in a fisherman’s hut in Penang. In Waikiki, I recited Tam o’ Shanter with an old man who had left Coupar Angus on a horse and cart to work in the sugar industry on the Scotch Coast of Hawaii. When I marvelled at the wild beauty of Yellowstone and Yosemite in the American West, I thought “o aw the airts the wind can blaw I dearly like the west” and recalled the words of John Muir the pioneering Scot who was the founder of America’s National Parks…
One of the reasons for the global reach of Burns and therefore for the survival of Scottish identity around the world was this very tradition — the Burns Supper. It began just a few years after the poet’s death in 1801 in Alloway with nine pals of the bard’s including Orator Bob Aitken, immortalised as “that glib Tongue’d Aitken” in Holy Willie’s Prayer. It had crossed the border by 1806 and by 1859 it was a world wide phenomenon with crowds of up to 3000 attending Burns commemorations in
create a place which has the potential to become one of the major cultural and tourist destinations in the country. Here, four enormous mounds, representing the four corners of the earth where Scots have settled, will use land art to tell this phenomenal story. On visiting the great garden of the Scottish World they will experience a stunning landscape of terraced mounds, futuristic pyramids and dramatic lochs which together depict a mappa mundi – a map of the world you can walk and explore to discover the
9 art work and sculpture, the cairns and carving, the words and poetry that reflect the enormous contribution the Scots have made to the world we live in today.
The Scottish Diaspora Tapestry
Want to get involved in the Scottish Diaspora Tapestry? If you have Scottish connections, are willing to help with the embroidery, or are interested in an associated arts activity, please contact one of the management team Yvonne Murphy, Co-ordinator; email@example.com Kristine Cunningham, Media: firstname.lastname@example.org www.scottishdiasporatapestry.org
For information on The Scottish World project visit: www.charlesjencks.com/#!projects-the-scottish-world www.billykay.co.uk/Pages/fife-earth.asp www.scottishresources.com/Projects/FifeEarth/default.aspx www.billykay.co.uk/Pages/TheScottishWorld2.asp
This is an ambitious project which builds on the amazing success of the Battle of PrestonpansTapestry to involve communities around the world in the celebration of their Scottish heritage and culture. The artist who oversaw the design of the Prestonpans Tapestry, Andrew Crummy will again create the outline designs for the linen panels. The beautifully wrought and highly ornate tapestry will consist of 250 individual panels, embroidered by volunteers in the Diaspora communities. Project Co-ordinator Yvonne Murphy captures the creative energy generated by the scheme: “This tapestry is designed to bring people together across the Diaspora and to celebrate Scottish culture, ingenuity and courage as it’s manifested across the world. We also hope that everyone involved will come to Scotland for the Year of Homecoming in 2014, so that we can all get together for a fantastic big Ceilidh. We also want to help foster links with communities in Scotland, so that they can play host to the panels from their ‘twin’ towns in the Diaspora.”
Whether or not you can make it home for Homecoming 2014, this is definitely a project you can become involved in. The project team is keen to hear from people around the world with knowledge of local Scottish heritage, as well as willing embroiderers. Clubs and societies can take part, as can individuals and small groups of friends. Embroidery experience is not essential, as there will be lots of online guidance. All the contact details for anyone wanting to engage in this major work of art are included on the page opposite. As a passionate Scot and a proud internationalist, Burns would approve of these global celebrations of the Scottish spirit and the democratic intellectual traditions of his homeland – the very traditions he himself did so much to promote on the world stage. I will end with one of my favourite quotations about the Bard in which the Scottish- American writer Ralph Waldo Emerson sums up the lasting, universal appeal of Burns’ songs and the guid Scots tongue in which the greatest of them are written…. “people who (normally) care nothing for literature and poetry care for Burns…The Confession of Augsburg… the Declaration of Independence, The Rights of Man … La Marseillaise are not more weighty documents in the history of freedom than the songs of Burns.”
Address to a Haggis Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o’ the pudding-race! Aboon them a’ yet tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o’a grace As lang’s my arm.
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread. Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He’ll mak it whissle; An’ legs an’ arms, an’ hands will sned, Like taps o’ trissle.
The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin was help to mend a mill In time o’need, While thro’ your pores the dews distil Like amber bead.
Ye Pow’rs, wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o’ fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer Gie her a haggis!
His knife see rustic Labour dight, An’ cut you up wi’ ready sleight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin’, rich!
Ae Fond Kiss
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an’ strive: Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive, Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve Are bent like drums; Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, Bethankit! hums. Is there that owre his French ragout Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad make her spew Wi’ perfect sconner, Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view On sic a dinner? Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckles as wither’d rash, His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash; His nieve a nit; Thro’ blody flood or field to dash, O how unfit!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee. Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me. I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy: But to see her was to love her; Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never lov’d sae kindly, Had we never lov’d sae blindly, Never met—or never parted, We had ne’er been broken-hearted. Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! Ae fareweeli alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee.
A Man’s a Man for a’ that
Auld Lang Syne
Is there for honest Poverty That hings his head, an’ a’ that; The coward slave – we pass him by, We dare be poor for a’ that! For a’ that, an’ a’ that. Our toils obscure an’ a’ that, The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, The Man’s the gowd for a’ that.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And auld lang syne?
What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin grey, an’ a that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine; A Man’s a Man for a’ that: For a’ that, and a’ that, Their tinsel show, an’ a’ that; The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor, Is king o’ men for a’ that. Ye see yon birkie, ca’d a lord, Wha struts, an’ stares, an’ a’ that; Tho’ hundreds worship at his word, He’s but a coof for a’ that: For a’ that, an’ a’ that, His ribband, star, an’ a’ that: The man o’ independent mind He looks an’ laughs at a’ that. A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, an’ a’ that; But an honest man’s abon his might, Gude faith, he maunna fa’ that! For a’ that, an’ a’ that, Their dignities an’ a’ that; The pith o’ sense, an’ pride o’ worth, Are higher rank than a’ that. Then let us pray that come it may, (As come it will for a’ that,) That Sense and Worth, o’er a’ the earth, Shall bear the gree, an’ a’ that. For a’ that, an’ a’ that, It’s coming yet for a’ that, That Man to Man, the world o’er, Shall brothers be for a’ that.
Chorus For auld lang syne, my jo, For auld lang syne, We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne. And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp! And surely I’ll be mine! And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne. We twa hae run about the braes, And pu’d the gowans fine; But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit, Sin auld lang syne. We twa hae paidl’d i’ the burn, Frae morning sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roar’d Sin auld lang syne. And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere! And gie’s a hand o’ thine! And we’ll tak a right gude-willy waught, For auld lang syne.
Charlie he’s my Darling
A Red, Red Rose
Comin’ thro’ the Rye
Green Grow The Rashes, O
‘Twas on a Monday morning Right early in the year That Charlie came to our town – The young Chevalier.
O my Luve’s like a red, red rose, That’s newly sprung in June, O my Luve’s like the melodie, That’s sweetly play’d in tune.
O, Jenny’s a’ weet, poor body, Jenny’s seldom dry: She draigl’t a’ her petticoatie, Comin thro’ the rye!
Chorus Green grow the rashes, O Green grow the rashes, O The sweetest hours that e’er I spend Are spent among the lasses, O.
Chorus An’ Charlie, he’s my darling My darling, my darling An’ Charlie, he’s my darling The young Chevalier.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in love am I, And I will love thee still, my dear, Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Comin thro’ the rye, poor body, Comin thro’ the rye, She draigl’t a’ her petticoatie, Comin thro’ the rye!
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi’ the sun! And I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands o’ life shall run.
Gin a body meet a body Comin thro’ the rye, Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry?
And fare thee weel, my only Luve! And fare thee weel, a while! And I will come again, my Luve! Tho’ it were ten thousand mile!
Gin a body meet a body Comin thro’ the glen, Gin a body kiss a body, Need the warl’ ken?
As he was walking up the street The city for to view O there he spied a bonnie lass The window looking thro’. Sae light’s he jumped up the stair And tirled at the pin And wha sae ready as hersel’ To let the laddie in? He set his Jenny on his knee All in his Highland dress For brawlie weel he ken’d the way To please a bonnie lass. It’s up yon heathery mountain An’ down yon scroggy glen We daurna yon gang a-milking For Charlie and his men.
Frae The Friends and Land I Love Frae the friends and land I love, Driv’n by Fortune’s felly spite; Frae my best belov’d I rove, Never mair to taste delight: Never mair maun hope to find Ease frae toil, relief frae care; When Remembrance wracks the mind, Pleasures but unveil despair. Brightest climes shall mirk appear, Desert ilka blooming shore, Till the Fates, nae mair severe, Friendship, love, and peace restore, Till Revenge, wi’ laurel’d head, Bring our banished hame again; And ilk loyal, bonie lad Cross the seas, and win his ain.
Gin a body meet a body Comin thro’ the grain; Gin a body kiss a body, The thing’s a body’s ain. Gin a body kiss a body Comin’ thro’ the grain Need a body grudge a body What’s a body’s ain Every lassie has her laddie Nane, they say, ha’e I yet a’ the lads they smile at me When comin’ thro’ the Rye Amang the train, there is a swain I dearly lo’e mysel’ But whaur his hame, or what his name I dinna care to tell
There’s nought but care on ev’ry han’ In every hour that passes, O What signifies the life o’ man An’ ‘twere na for the lasses, O. The war’ly race may riches chase An’ riches still may fly them, O An’ tho’ at last they catch them fast Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them, O. But gie me a cannie hour at e’en My arms about my dearie, O An’ war’ly cares an’ war’ly men May a’ gae tapsalteerie, O! For you sae douce, ye sneer at this Ye’re nought but senseless asses, O The wisest man the warl’ e’er saw He dearly lov’d the lasses, O. Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O Her prentice han’ she try’d on man An’ then she made the lasses, O.
My Highland Lassie, O
My Native Land Sae Far Awa
Scots Wha Hae
Nae gentle dames, tho’ e’er sae fair, Shall ever be my muse’s care: Their titles a’ arc empty show; Gie me my Highland lassie, O.
O sad and heavy, should I part, But for her sake, sae far awa; Unknowing what my way may thwart, My native land sae far awa.
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed Or to victorie!
By oppression’s woes and pains, By your sons in servile chains, We will drain our dearest veins But they shall be free!
Chorus Within the glen sae bushy, O, Aboon the plain sae rashy, O, I set me down wi’ right guid will, To sing my Highland lassie, O.
Thou that of a’ things Maker art, That formed this Fair sae far awa, Gie body strength, then I’ll ne’er start At this my way sae far awa.
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour: See the front o’ battle lour; See approach proud Edward’s power Chains and Slaverie!
Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty’s in every blow! Let us do or dee!
How true is love to pure desert! Like mine for her sae far awa; And nocht can heal my bosom’s smart, While, oh, she is sae far awa!
Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha will fill a coward’s grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn, and flee!
Nane other love, nane other dart, I feel but her’s sae far awa; But fairer never touch’d a heart Than her’s, the Fair, sae far awa. Tho’ it were ten thousand mile!
Wha for Scotland’s King and Law Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand orFreeman fa’, Let him follow me!
O were yon hills and vallies mine, Yon palace and yon gardens fine! The world then the love should know I bear my Highland Lassie, O. But fickle fortune frowns on me, And I maun cross the raging sea! But while my crimson currents flow, I’ll love my Highland lassie, O. Altho’ thro’ foreign climes I range, I know her heart will never change, For her bosom burns with honour’s glow, My faithful Highland lassie, O. For her I’ll dare the billow’s roar, For her I’ll trace a distant shore, That Indian wealth may lustre throw Around my Highland lassie, O. She has my heart, she has my hand, By secret troth and honour’s band! Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, I’m thine, my Highland lassie, O. Farewell the glen sae bushy, O! Farewell the plain sae rashy, O! To other lands I now must go, To sing my Highland lassie, O.
Ye Jacobites by Name The Banks o’ Doon Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary fu’ o’ care? Thou’ll break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro’ the flowering thorn: Thou minds me o’ departed joys, Departed never to return. Aft hae I rov’d by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o’ its love, And fondly sae did I o’ mine. Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree! And my fause lover staw my rose But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.
Ye Jacobites by name, lend an ear, lend an ear, Ye Jacobites by name, lend an ear, Ye Jacobites by name, Your fautes I will proclaim, Your doctrines I maun blame, you shall hear. What is Right, and What is Wrang, by the law, by the law? What is Right and what is Wrang by the law? What is Right, and what is Wrang? A short sword, and a lang, A weak arm and a strang, for to draw. What makes heroic strife, famed afar, famed afar? What makes heroic strife famed afar? What makes heroic strife? To whet th’ assassin’s knife, Or hunt a Parent’s life, wi’ bluidy war? Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state, Then let your schemes alone in the state. Then let your schemes alone, Adore the rising sun, And leave a man undone, to his fate.
The Battle of Sherramuir O cam ye here the fight to shun, Or herd the sheep wi’ me, man? Or were ye at the Sherra-moor, Or did the battle see, man?” I saw the battle, sair and teugh, And reekin-red ran mony a sheugh; My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough, To hear the thuds, and see the cluds O’ clans frae woods, in tartan duds, Wha glaum’d at kingdoms three, man. La, la, la, la, &c. The red-coat lads, wi’ black cockauds, To meet them were na slaw, man; They rush’d and push’d, and blude outgush’d And mony a bouk did fa’, man: The great Argyle led on his files, I wat they glanced twenty miles; They hough’d the clans like nine-pin kyles, They hack’d and hash’d, while braid-swords, clash’d, And thro’ they dash’d, and hew’d and smash’d, Till fey men died awa, man. La, la, la, la, &c. But had ye seen the philibegs, And skyrin tartan trews, man; When in the teeth they dar’d our Whigs, And covenant True-blues, man: In lines extended lang and large, When baiginets o’erpower’d the targe, And thousands hasten’d to the charge; Wi’ Highland wrath they frae the sheath Drew blades o’ death, till, out o’ breath, They fled like frighted dows, man! La, la, la, la, &c.
Tam O’ Shanter
O how deil, Tam, can that be true? The chase gaed frae the north, man; I saw mysel, they did pursue, The horsemen back to Forth, man; And at Dunblane, in my ain sight, They took the brig wi’ a’ their might, And straught to Stirling wing’d their flight; But, cursed lot! the gates were shut; And mony a huntit poor red-coat, For fear amaist did swarf, man!” La, la, la, la, &c. My sister Kate cam up the gate Wi’ crowdie unto me, man; She swoor she saw some rebels run To Perth unto Dundee, man; Their left-hand general had nae skill; The Angus lads had nae gude will That day their neibors’ blude to spill; For fear, for foes, that they should lose Their cogs o’ brose; they scar’d at blows, And hameward fast did flee, man. La, la, la, la, &c. They’ve lost some gallant gentlemen, Amang the Highland clans, man! I fear my Lord Panmure is slain, Or fallen in Whiggish hands, man, Now wad ye sing this double fight, Some fell for wrang, and some for right; But mony bade the world gude-night; Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, By red claymores, and muskets knell, Wi’ dying yell, the Tories fell, And Whigs to hell did flee, man. La, la, la, la, &c.
When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neibors, neibors, meet; As market days are wearing late, And folk begin to tak the gate, While we sit bousing at the nappy, An’ getting fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Where sits our sulky, sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tam o’ Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter: (Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonie lasses).
O Tam! had’st thou but been sae wise, As taen thy ain wife Kate’s advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was na sober; That ilka melder wi’ the Miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That ev’ry naig was ca’d a shoe on The Smith and thee gat roarin’ fou on; That at the Lord’s house, ev’n on Sunday, Thou drank wi’ Kirkton Jean till Monday, She prophesied that late or soon, Thou wad be found, deep drown’d in Doon, Or catch’d wi’ warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway’s auld, haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen’d, sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises!
But to our tale: Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right, Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi reaming saats, that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Souter Johnie, His ancient, trusty, drougthy crony: Tam lo’ed him like a very brither; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi’ sangs an’ clatter; And aye the ale was growing better: The Landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi’ favours secret, sweet, and precious: The Souter tauld his queerest stories; The Landlord’s laugh was ready chorus: The storm without might rair and rustle, Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E’en drown’d himsel amang the nappy. As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure, The minutes wing’d their way wi’ pleasure: Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious! But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow’r, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white—then melts for ever; Or like the Borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the Rainbow’s lovely form Evanishing amid the storm.— Nae man can tether Time nor Tide, The hour approaches Tam maun ride; That hour, o’ night’s black arch the key-stane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; And sic a night he taks the road in, As ne’er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as ‘twad blawn its last; The rattling showers rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow’d; Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow’d: That night, a child might understand, The deil had business on his hand. Weel-mounted on his grey mare, Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tam skelpit on thro’ dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire; Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet, Whiles crooning o’er some auld Scots sonnet, Whiles glow’rin round wi’ prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares; Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry. By this time he was cross the ford, Where in the snaw the chapman smoor’d; And past the birks and meikle stane, Where drunken Charlie brak’s neck-bane; And thro’ the whins, and by the cairn, Where hunters fand the murder’d bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Where Mungo’s mither hang’d hersel’. Before him Doon pours all his floods, The doubling storm roars thro’ the woods, The lightnings flash from pole to pole, Near and more near the thunders roll, When, glimmering thro’ the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem’d in a bleeze, Thro’ ilka bore the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! What dangers thou canst make us scorn! Wi’ tippenny, we fear nae evil; Wi’ usquabae, we’ll face the devil! The swats sae ream’d in Tammie’s noddle, Fair play, he car’d na deils a boddle, But Maggie stood, right sair astonish’d, Till, by the heel and hand admonish’d, She ventur’d forward on the light; And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight! Warlocks and witches in a dance: Nae cotillon, brent new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle in their heels. A winnock-bunker in the east, There sat auld Nick, in shape o’ beast; A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge: He screw’d the pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl.— Coffins stood round, like open presses, That shaw’d the Dead in their last dresses; And (by some devilish cantraip sleight) Each in its cauld hand held a light. By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer’s banes, in gibbet-airns; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns; A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, Wi’ his last gasp his gabudid gape; Five tomahawks, wi’ blude red-rusted: Five scimitars, wi’ murder crusted; A garter which a babe had strangled: A knife, a father’s throat had mangled. Whom his ain son of life bereft, The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft; Wi’ mair of horrible and awfu’, Which even to name wad be unlawfu’.
As Tammie glowr’d, amaz’d, and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious; The Piper loud and louder blew, The dancers quick and quicker flew, The reel’d, they set, they cross’d, they cleekit, Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, And linkit at it in her sark! Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans, A’ plump and strapping in their teens! Their sarks, instead o’ creeshie flainen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!— Thir breeks o’ mine, my only pair, That ance were plush o’ guid blue hair, I wad hae gien them off my hurdies, For ae blink o’ the bonie burdies! But wither’d beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Louping an’ flinging on a crummock. I wonder did na turn thy stomach. But Tam kent what was what fu’ brawlie: There was ae winsome wench and waulie That night enlisted in the core, Lang after ken’d on Carrick shore; (For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perish’d mony a bonie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country-side in fear); Her cutty sark, o’ Paisley harn, That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude tho’ sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie. Ah! little ken’d thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi twa pund Scots (‘twas a’ her riches), Wad ever grac’d a dance of witches!
But here my Muse her wing maun cour, Sic flights are far beyond her power; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jade she was and strang), And how Tam stood, like ane bewithc’d, And thought his very een enrich’d: Even Satan glowr’d, and fidg’d fu’ fain, And hotch’d and blew wi’ might and main: Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a thegither, And roars out, “Weel done, Cutty-sark!” And in an instant all was dark: And scarcely had he Maggie rallied. When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke; As open pussie’s mortal foes, When, pop! she starts before their nose; As eager runs the market-crowd, When “Catch the thief!” resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi’ mony an eldritch skreich and hollow.
Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou’ll get thy fairin! In hell, they’ll roast thee like a herrin! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! Kate soon will be a woefu’ woman! Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg, And win the key-stone o’ the brig;^1 There, at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross. But ere the keystane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake! For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi’ furious ettle; But little wist she Maggie’s mettle! Ae spring brought off her master hale, But left behind her ain grey tail: The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read, Ilk man and mother’s son, take heed: Whene’er to Drink you are inclin’d, Or Cutty-sarks rin in your mind, Think ye may buy the joys o’er dear; Remember Tam o’ Shanter’s mare.
Amazing grace how sweet the sound. That saved a wretch like me, I once was lost but now I’m found, Was blind but now I see.
Now Campbeltown Loch is a beautiful place But the price of the whisky is grim. How nice it would be if the whisky was free And the loch was full up to the brim.
’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, And grace my fears relieved, How precious did that grace appear, The hour I first believed.
Chorus O Campbeltown Loch, I wish you were whisky Campbeltown Loch, och aye O Campbeltown Loch, I wish you were whisky I would drink you dry.
Through many dangers, toils and snares, We have already come, T’was grace that brought us safe thus far, And grace will lead us home.
I’d buy me a yacht with the money I’ve got I’d anchor her out in the bay. If I wanted a nip I’d go in for a dip I’d be swimming by night and by day.
When we’ve been there ten thousand years, We’d have a gathering of the clans Bright shining as the sun, They’d come from near and far. We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise, I can see them grin as they’re wading in Than when we first begun. And shouting “Slainte mhath” Amazing grace how sweet the sound, But what if the boat should overturn That saved a wretch like me, And drowned in the loch was I? I once was lost but now I’m found, You would hear me shout, you would hear me call Was blind but now I see. out “What a wonderful way to die!” But what’s this I see - it’s och oan for me It’s a vision to make your blood freeze. It’s the polis afloat in a dirty big boat And they’re shouting, “Time, gentlemen, please!”
Donald, where’s yer troosers?
Chorus Ally bally, ally bally bee Sittin’ on yer mammy’s knee Greetin’ for anither bawbee Tae buy some Coulter’s candy.
I’ve just come down from the Isle of Skye, I’m no very big and I’m awful shy, And the lassies shout when I go by, “Donald where’s yer troosers.”
Here’s auld Coulter comin’ roon’ Wi’ a basket on his croon So here’s a penny, noo ye rin doon And buy some Coulter’s candy. Ally bally, ally bally bee, When ye grow up ye’11 gang tae sea Makin’ pennies for your daddie and me Tae buy some Coulter’s candy.
Let the wind blow high, let the wind blow low, Through the streets in my kilt I’ll go, And all the lassies shout hello Donald where’s yer troosers. A Lassie took me to a ball And it was slippery in the hall And I was feart that I would fall Fur I hadnae on ma’ troosers
I went down to London Town And I had some fun in the underground Oor wee Annie’s greetin’ tae, The ladies turned their heads around So whit can puir auld mammy dae? But gie them a penny atween them twae Saying “Donald where’s yer troosers”. Tae buy some Coulter’s Candy. To wear the kilt is my delight It isna wrong, I know its right Puir wee Jeannie she’s lookin’ affa’ thin A rickle o’ banes covered ower wi’ skin The islanders would get a fright If they saw me in the troosers Noo she’s gettin’ a wee double chin Wi’ sookin’ Coulter’s candy. They’d like to wed me everywan Just let them catch me if they can You cannae tak’ the breeks aff a Hielan’ man Roamin’ in the Gloamin’ And I don’t wear the troosers Twice Roamin’ in the gloamin’, By the bonnie banks o’ Clyde, Roamin’ in the gloamin’, Wae’ a lassie by your side, When the sun has gone to rest, That’s the time that I love best, Oh its lovely roamin’ in the gloamin’.
I Love a Lassie Twice I love a lassie, a bonnie, bonnie lassie. She’s as pure as the lily in the dell. She’s as sweet as the heather, The bonnie bloomin’ heather Mary, ma Scots Bluebell.
I Belong to Glasgow Chorus I belong to Glasgow dear old Glasgow toon, But there’s something the matter wi’ Glasgow for its going roon’ and roon’, I’m only a common old workin’ lad, As any one here can see, But when I get a couple of drinks on a Saturday, Glasgow belongs to me.
Chorus Step we gaily, on we go, Heel for heel and toe for toe. Arm in arm and row on row, All for Mairi’s wedding.
Whaur hae ye been, sae braw lad O Whaur hae ye been, sae brankie O Whaur hae ye been, sae braw lad Cam ye by Killiecrankie O
Over hillways, up and down, Myrtle green and bracken brown. Past the shielings, through the town, All for sake o’ Mairi. Red her cheeks as rowans are, Bright her eye as any star. Fairest o’ them all by far Is our darling Mairi. Plenty herring, plenty meal, Plenty peat to fill her creel. Plenty bonny bairns as weel, That’s the toast for Mairi.
Stop yer Ticklin’ Jock! Twice Oh stop yer ticklin’ Jock, Oh stop yer ticklin’ Jock, Dinna mak’ me laugh sae hearty, Or ye’ll mak’ me choke I wish ye’d stop your nonsense Just look at a’ the folk Stop yer ticklin’, tickalick-alick-alin’ Stop yer ticklin’ Jock!
Jist a wee Deoch an’ Doris Twice Jist a wee deoch an’ doris Jist a wee drap that’s a’ Jist a wee deoch an’ doris Afore ye gang awa’ There’s a wee wifie waiting In a wee but an’ ben If ye can say it’s a braw bricht moonlicht nicht Then yer a’ richt, ye ken.
An ye had been whaur I hae been Ye wadna been sae cantie O An ye had seen what I had seen I’ the braes O Killiecrankie O I fought at land, I fought at sea At hame I fought my auntie But I met the devil and Dundee On the braes O Killiecrankie O The bauld pictur, fell in a furr And Clavers gat a clankie Or I had fed on Athol gled On the braes O Killiecrankie Oh fie Mackay, what gart ye lie I’ the bush o’ yonder the brankie Ye’d better kiss King Willies loof Than come to Killiecrankie O . It’s nae shame, it’s nae shame There’s na shame to swankie There’s sour slaes on Athol braes And the deil’s at Killiecrankie O
Flower of Scotland
Green Hills of Tyrol
O Flower of Scotland, When will we see Your like again, That fought and died for, Your wee bit Hill and Glen, And stood against him, Proud Edward’s Army, And sent him homeward, Tae think again.
There was a soldier, a Scottish soldier Who wandered far away and soldiered far away There was none bolder, with good broad shoulder He’s fought in many a fray, and fought and won He’d seen the glory and told the story Of battles glorious and deeds victorious But now he’s sighing, his heart is crying To leave these green hills of Tyrol
The Hills are bare now, And Autumn leaves Lie thick and still, O’er land that is lost now, Which those so dearly held, That stood against him, Proud Edward’s Army, And sent him homeward, Tae think again. Those days are past now, And in the past They must remain, But we can still rise now, And be the nation again, That stood against him, Proud Edward’s Army, And sent him homeward, Tae think again. O Flower of Scotland, When will we see Your like again, That fought and died for, Your wee bit Hill and Glen, And stood against him, Proud Edward’s Army, And sent him homeward, Tae think again.
Chorus Because these green hills are not Highland hills Or the island hills, they’re not my land’s hills And fair as these green foreign hills may be They are not the hills of home. And now this soldier, this Scottish soldier Who wandered far away and soldiered far away Sees leaves are falling and death is calling And he will fade away, in that far land He called his piper, his trusty piper And bade him sound a lay, a pibroch sad to play Upon a hillside, but Scottish hill side Not on these green hills of Tyrol. And so this soldier, this Scottish soldier Will wander far no more, and soldier far no more. And on a hillside, a Scottish hillside You’ll see a piper play his soldier home He’d seen the glory, he’d told his story Of battles glorious and deeds victorious The bugles cease now, he is at peace now, Far from those green hills of Tyrol.
For these are my Mountains Chorus For these are my mountains And this is my glen The braes of my childhood Will know me again. No land ever claimed me Though far I did roam For these are my mountains And I’m going home. For fame and for fortune I wandered the earth And now I’ve come back to This land of my birth. I’ve brought back my treasure But only to find They’re less than the pleasures I’ve just left behind The burn by the road sings As I’m going by The folk overhearing With welcoming cry. The loch where the star flies At last I can see It’s here that my heart lies It’s here I’ll be free. Kind faces will meet me An’ welcome me in And how they will greet me My ain kith an’ kin. This night will be mingled Old songs will be sung At last I’ll be hearing My ain mother’s tongue. Chorus
Hey Johnnie Cope The drums of war were sounding far, When Johnnie Cope cam tae Dunbar, When Johnnie Cope cam tae Dunbar, Upon a misty Morning. Cope sent a challenge tae Dunbar Said; ‘Charlie meet me if you daur, ‘And I’ll learn you the arts of war, ‘If you’ll meet me in the morning’ Chorus Hey Johnnie Cope are you wauking yet Or are your drums a- beating yet? If you were wauking I would wait Tae gang tae the coals in the morning. When Charlie looked this letter upon, He drew his sword the scabbard from, Come follow me my merry men, And we’ll meet Johnnie Cope in the morning. When Johnnie Cope he heard o’ this, He thought it wouldna be amiss, To hae a horse in readiness, To flee awa’ in the morning. Fye now Johnnie, get up and run, The Highland bagpipes mak a din, It’s better tae sleep in a hale skin. For ‘twill be a bloody morning. When Johnnie Cope tae Dunbar came, They spiered at him, ‘where’s a’ your men?’ ‘The Deil confound me gin I ken, For I left them a this morning.’ Now Johnnie troth, ye were na blate, Tae come wi’ news o’ your ain defeat, And leave your men in sic a straight So early in the morning. ‘Faith’, quo Johnnie, ‘I had sic fegs, Wi’ their claymores and their philabegs, If I face them again Deil brak ma legs, So I wish you a’ good morning.’
The Road to Dundee Cauld winter was howling o’er moor and o’er mountains, And wild was the surge on the dark rolling sea, When I met about daybreak a bonnie young lassie, Wha asked me the road and the miles tae Dundee. Said I, “My young lassie, I canna’ weel tell ye, The road and the distance I canna’ weel gie; But if ye’ll permit me tae gang a wee bittie, I’ll show ye the road and the miles tae Dundee.” At once she consented and gave me her arm; Ne’er a word did I speir wha the lassie might be, She appeared like an angel in feature and form, As she walked by my side on the road to Dundee. At length wi’ the Howe o’ Strathmartin behind us, And the spires of the toon in full view we could see; She said “Gentle sir, I can never forget ye For showing me so far on the road to Dundee.” “This ring and this purse take to prove I am grateful And some simple token in trust ye’ll gie me, And in times to come I’ll the laddie remember That showed me the road and the miles to Dundee.” She took the gowd pin from the scarf on her bosom, And said “Keep ye this in remembrance o’ me” Then bravely I kissed the sweet lips o’ the lassie Ere I parted wi’ her on the road to Dundee. So here’s to the lassie - I ne’er can forget her – And ilka young laddie that’s listening to me; And never be sweer to convoy a young lassie, Though it’s only to show her the road to Dundee.
The Wild Mountain Thyme Oh the Summer time is coming And the trees are sweetly blooming And the wild mountain thyme All around the blooming heather Will ye go lassie go? Chorus And we’ll all go together To pull wild mountain thyme From around the blooming heather Will ye go lassie go? I will build my love a bower Near yon pure crystal fountain And on it I will pile All the flowers of the mountain Will ye go lassie go?
Mull of Kintyre
The Road to the Isles
Chorus Mull of Kintyre, o mist rolling in from the sea, My desire is always to be here, O Mull of Kintyre.
A far croonin’ is pulling me away As take I wi’ my cromach to the road The far Cuillins are puttin’ love on me As step I wi’ the sunlight for my load.
Far have I travelled, and much have I seen, Dark distant mountains, with valleys of green, Past painted deserts, the sunsets on fire As he carries me home, to the Mull of Kintyre. Smiles in the sunshine, and tears in the rain. Still take me back where my memories remain, Flickering embers, grow higher and higher As they carry me back, to the Mull of Kintyre.
Chorus Sure, by Tummel and Loch Rannoch and Lochaber I will go, By heather tracks wi’ heaven in their wiles; If its thinkin’ in your inner heart braggart’s in my step, You’ve never smelt the tangle o’ the Isles Oh, the far Cuillins are puttin’ love on me As step I wi’ my cromach to the Isles.
Sweep through the heather, like deer in the glen, Carry me back to the days I knew then, Nights when we sang like a heavenly choir Of the life and the times of the Mull of Kintyre
It’s by Sheil water, the track is to the west By Aillort and by Morar to the sea The cool cresses I am thinking o’ for pluck And bracken for a wink on Mother’s knee.
If my true love she were gone I will surely find no other Where wild mountain thyme All around the blooming heather Will ye go lassie go?
It’s the blue Islands are pulling me away Their laughter puts the leap upon the lame The blue Islands from the Skerries to the Lews Wi’ heather honey taste upon each name.
The Hundred Pipers Wi’ a hundred pipers an’ a’, an’ a’, Wi’ a hundred pipers an’ a’, an’ a’, We’ll up an’ gie them a blaw, a blaw Wi’ a hundred pipers an’ a’, an’ a’. Oh! It’s owre the Border awa’, awa’ It’s owre the Border awa’, awa’ We’ll on and we’ll march to Carlisle ha’ Wi’ its yetts, its castell, an’ a’, an’ a’. Wi’ a hundredpipers an’ a’ an’ a’ Wi’ a hundredpipers an’ a’ an’ a’ We’ll up an’gie them a blaw, a blaw Wi’ a hundredpipers an’ a’ an’ a’
Oh! our sodger lads looked braw, looked braw, Wi’ their tartans, kilts an’ a’, an’ a’, Wi’ their bonnets, an’ feathers, an’ glittering gear An’ pilbrochs sounding sweet and clear Will they a’ return to their ain dear glen? Will they a’ return, our heiland men? Second-sighted Sandy looked fu’ wae And mothers grat when they marched away The esk was swollen, sae red and sae deep But shouther to shouther the brave lads keep Twa thousand swam owre to fell English ground An’ danced themselves dry to the pibroch’s sound Dumbfounder’d the English saw---they saw--Dumbfounder’d they heard the blaw, the blaw Dumbfounder’d, they ran awa’, awa’ From the hundred pipers an’ a’, an’ a’.
The Bonnie Lass o’Fyvie
Mingulay Boat Song
There once was a troop o’ Irish dragoons Cam marching doon through Fyvie-o And the captain’s fa’en in love wi’ a very bonnie lass And her name it was ca’d pretty Peggy-o
Twas in the early morning, when we marched awa’ And O but the captain he was sorry-o The drums they did beat o’er the bonnie braes o’ Gight And the band played the bonnie lass of Fyvie-o
There’s many a bonnie lass in the Howe o Auchterless There’s many a bonnie lass in the Garioch There’s many a bonnie Jean in the streets of Aiberdeen But the floower o’ them aw lies in Fyvie-o
Long ere we came to the Howe of Auchterless We had our captain to carry-o And long ere we won into the streets of Aberdeen We had our captain to bury-o
O come doon the stairs, Pretty Peggy, my dear Come doon the stairs, Pretty Peggy-o Come doon the stairs, comb back your yellow hair Bid a last farewell to your mammy-o
Green grow the birks on bonnie Ythanside And low lie the lowlands of Fyvie-o The captain’s name was Ned and he died for a maid He died for the bonnie lass of Fyvie-o
It’s braw, aye it’s braw, a captain’s lady for to be And it’s braw to be a captain’s lady-o It’s braw to ride around and to follow the camp And to ride when your captain he is ready-o O I’ll give you ribbons, love, and I’ll give you rings I’ll give you a necklace of amber-o I’ll give you a silken petticoat with flounces to the knee If you’ll convey me doon to your chamber-o What would your mother think if she heard the guineas clink And saw the haut-boys marching all before you-o O little would she think gin she heard the guineas clink If I followed a soldier laddie-o I never did intend a soldier’s lady for to be A soldier shall never enjoy me-o I never did intend to gae tae a foreign land And I never will marry a soldier-o I’ll drink nae more o your claret wine I’ll drink nae more o your glasses-o Tomorrow is the day when we maun ride away So farewell tae your Fyvie lasses-o The colonel he cried, mount, boys, mount, boys, mount The captain, he cried, tarry-o O tarry yet a while, just another day or twa Til I see if the bonnie lass will marry-o
Uist Tramping Song Chorus Come along, Come along, let us foot it out together, Come along, Come along, be it fair or stormy weather. With the hills of home before us and the purple of the heather, Let us sing in happy chorus come along! come along! So gaily sings the lark and the sky is awake, With the promise of a new day for the road we gladly take. So its heel and toe and forward singing fairwell to the town, And the welcome that awaits us e’re the sun goes down. Its the call of sea and shore; its the tang of bog and peat, And the scent of briar and Myrtle that puts magic in our feet. So its on we go rejoicing, over bracken over stile, and its soon we will be tramping out the last long mile.
Chorus Hill you ho, boys Let her go, boys Bring her head round Now all Together Hill you bo, boys Let her go, boys Sailing homeward, To Mingulay What care we though white the Minch is What care we for wind or weather ? Let her go boys Ev’ry inch is Wearing homeward To Mingulay Wives are waiting on the bank or Looking seaward from the heather Pull her round boys And we’ll anchor Ere the sun sets at Mingulay
The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond
Northern Lights of Old Aberdeen When I was a lad, a tiny wee lad, My mother said to me, “Come see the Northern Lights my boy They’re bright as they can be” She called them the heavenly dancers, Merry dancers in the sky. I’ll never forget that wonderful sight, They made the heavens bright. The Northern Lights of Old Aberdeen Mean home sweet home to me. The Northern Lights of Aberdeen Are what I long to see. I’ve been a wanderer all my life And many a sight I’ve seen, God speed the day when I’m on my way To my home in Aberdeen. I’ve wandered in many far off lands, And travelled many a mile. I’ve missed the folk I’ve cherished most, The joy of a friendly smile. It warms up the heart of the wanderer, The clasp of a welcoming hand To greet me when I return Home to my native land.
By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes Where the sun shines bright on Loch Lomond Where me and my true love spent mony happy days On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond. Chorus O ye’ll tak’ the high road and I’ll tak’ the low road And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye; But me and my true love will never meet again On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond. ’Twas there that we parted in yon shady glen On the steep, steep side o’ Ben Lomond Where in purple hue the Highland hills we view And the moon glints out in the gloamin’.
There the wild flowers spring and the wee birdies sing And in sunshine the waters are sleepin’ But the broken heart it kens nae second spring again Though resigned we may be while we’re greetin’.
Song of the Clyde
We’re no’ awa’ tae bide awa’
Skye Boat Song
Scotland the Brave
I sing of a river I’m happy beside The song that I sing is a song of the Clyde Of all Scottish rivers it’s dearest to me It flows from Leadhills all the way to the sea. It borders the orchards of Lanark so fair Meanders through meadows with sheep grazing there But from Glasgow to Greenock, in towns on each side The hammers’ ‘ding-dong’ is the song of the Clyde.
Chorus For we’re no’ awa’ to bide awa’ We’re no’ awa’ to leave ye We’re no’ awa’ to bide awa’ We’ll aye come back and see ye
Chorus Speed bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing Onward the sailors cry, Carry the lad that’s born to be king Over the sea to Skye.
Hark, when the night is falling, Hear! hear the pipes are calling, Loudly and proudly calling, down through the glen. There, where the hills are sleeping, Now feel the blood a-leaping, High as the spirits of the old highland men.
As I gaed doon by Wilsontoon I met auld Johnnie Scobbie, Says I to him will ye hae a hauf, Says he, “Man! That’s my hobby.”
Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar Thunder claps rend the air; Baffled, our foes stand by the shore Follow they will not dare.
So we had a hauf an’ anither hauf, And then we had anither, When he got fou’ he shouted “Hoo! It’s Carnwath Mill for ever.”
Many’s the lad fought on that day Well the claymore could wield, When the night came, silently lay Dead on Culloden’s field.
We wandered doon the street again We cleekit unco cheery, When John got hame his wife cried shame, I see you’re enjoyin’ your hobby.
Though the waves leap, soft shall ye sleep Ocean’s a royal bed; Rocked in the deep, Flora will keep Watch by your weary head.
Of a’ the friens that ere I kenned, There’s nane like Johnnie Scobbie, His hert is leal, he’s true as steel, An’ a hauf is aye his hobby.
Burned are our homes, exile and death Scatter the loyal men. Yet ere the sword cool in the sheath Charlie will come again.
So whenever friendly friens may meet, Wherever Scots foregather, We’ll raise our gless, we’ll shout “Hurroo, It’s Carnwath Mill for ever”.
Oh the river Clyde, the wonderful Clyde The name of it thrills me and fills me with pride And I’m satisfied whate’er may betide The sweetest of songs is the song of the Clyde. Imagine we’ve left Craigendoran behind And wind-happy yachts by Kilcreggan we find At Kirn and Dunoon and Innellan we stay Then Scotland’s Madeira that’s Rothesay, they say. Or maybe by Fairlie and Largs we will go Or over to Millport that thrills people so Maybe joumey to Arran it can’t be denied Those scenes all belong to the song of the Clyde. When sun sets on dockland, there’s beauty to see The cry of a seabird is music to me The blast of a horn loudly echoes, and then A stillness descends on the water again. Tis’ here that the sea-going liners are born But, unlike the salmon, they seldom return Can you wonder the Scots o’er the ocean so wide Should constantly long for the song of the Clyde?
Westering Home Chorus And it’s westering home, and a song in the air, Light in the eye, and its goodbye to care; Laughter o’ love, and a welcoming there; Isle of my heart my own one!
Tell me o’ lands o’ the Orient gay! Speak o’ the riches and joys o’ Cathay! Aye but it’s grand to be walkin’ each day To find yourself nearer to Islay. Where are the folks like the folk o’ the west? Canty, and couthy, and kindly, the best; There I would hie me, and there I would rest At hame wi’ my ain folk in Islay.
Chorus Towering in gallant fame, Scotland my mountain hame, High may your proud standards gloriously wave. Land of my high endeavour, land of the shining river, Land of my heart for ever, Scotland the brave. High in the misty highlands, out by the purple islands Brave are the hearts that beat beneath Scottish skies. Wild are the winds to meet you, staunch are the friends that greet you, Kind as the love that shines from fair maidens’ eyes. Far off in sunlit places, sad are the Scottish faces, Yearning to feel the kiss of sweet Scottish rain, Where tropic skies are beaming, love sets the heart a-dreaming, Longing and dreaming for the homeland again.
Chorus Let me tell you that I love you And I think about you all the time Caledonia, you’re calling me, now I’m going home And if I’ve become a stranger then that would make me more than sad For Caledonia’s been everything I’ve ever had. I don’t know if you can see The changes that have come over me These last few days I’ve been afraid That I might drift away. I’ve been telling stories, singing songs About the place that I belong And that’s the reason why I seem so far away, today.
I have moved and kept moving Proved the points I needed proving And lost the friends I needed losing Somewhere on the way. And I’ve kissed the girls and left them sighing Stolen dreams and there’s no denying I’ve travelled far with conscious flying Somewhere in the wind. I’m sitting here before the fire An empty room, a forest choir The flames have died, won’t get higher They’ve withered now, they’ve gone. But I’m thinking easy, my mind’s clear I know what I must do tomorrow When hands have shaken and kisses flowed Then I will disappear.
Writer, playwright and broadcaster Billy Kay through his company Odyssey Productions produces documentaries on Scottish cultural history for BBC Radio Scotland, winning five international awards. He is a passionate advocate of the Scots language and author of the classic work Scots: The Mither Tongue. His latest book is The Scottish World: A Journey into the Scottish Diaspora.
Dae ye ken yer neeps frae yer tatties?
A B C
a ghosts profound grief equipment/tools
A B C
to envy to intimidate to surmise
A B C
an intimate embrace a slipper a refuse collector
GLENGORE or GRANDGORE
A B C
a bonnet a massacre syphilis
A B C
clever cold and cutting mischievous
A B C
to gossip to cleave to clip
A B C
a male model a bauble a small rotund person
A B C
a fox/sly person a nip of whisky a frog
A B C
having sex at home having an ice lolly at home being assaulted at home
A B C
pubic hair coastal fog frost
peacock a cool dresser a parrot
HOW YOU RATE 0-2 In the name of the wee man! Ye dunderheid! 3-5 Nae sae guid, eh? 6-10 Aye, nae too bad! 11-12 That wes braw! Ye ken yer neeps frae yer tatties!
a refuse collector a socialite a rent collector
A B C
1C, 2B, 3A, 4C, 5C, 6C, 7A,
A B C
PAPINGO or PAPINGAY
8A, 9C, 10B, 11C, 12C,
A Borad Scot’s Burns Suuper Songbook 2013 published by email@example.com
Billy Kay’s Scots Language Quiz
Presenting Janey Godley Multi-award-winning Scottish comedienne, playwright, awardwinning blogger, best-selling author and former Scotsman newspaper columnist Janey Godley has performed her comedy shows and one-woman play around the world, including off-Broadway in New York. She is a regular on BBC Radio 4’s Just a Minute. In 2006, Janey was nominated and was close runner-up for the annual Scotswoman of the Year title as ‘the most inspirational woman in Scotland’; at the New Zealand International Comedy Festival, she won the Spirit of The Festival Award.