Battle of Waterloo, The Bonnet so Blue, and Love has Eyes/Battle of Waterloo
BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
Scots sodgers true, wi’ bonnets blue,
Did never in our days, man,
Frae people a’, baith great and sma’.
E’er get sae muckle praise, man;
For wi’ their brose an' tartan hose,
They made the French to rue, man,
The bauld attack which they did mak
On Scots at Waterloo, man.
Chorus.—Fal lal de ral lal, &c.
A philabeg's the Frenchmen’s plague,
The sight they canna bear, man,
An’ aff they rin to save their skin,
When Highland pipes they hear, man;
But if they chance for to advance
To fight us ance or twice, man,
Our Highland lads cast aff their plaids
And drive them down like mice, man.
For ten years past a’ that did list,
Have been right sair put till’t, man,
And mony a braw Scotsman did fa’
That wore a tartan kilt, man,
For lang in Spain, wi’ might and main,
They fought owre howes & braes, man,
Our brave lads there did suffer sair
For want o’ meat and claise, man.
Next owre to France they had to dance,
King Louis for to save, man,
Our mony a man back never cam,
But in it fand his grave, man;
An’ bonnets blue, at Waterloo,
They suffer’d warst ava, man,
The filthy loons of French dragoons
Did near hand kill them a’, man.
She form'd her there in hollow square,
Her nainsel to defend, man,
And there she stood ’mang brither’s blood,
Until her life did end, man.
Up cam the Greys wi’ trotting pace,
Ahint the Frenchmen’s back, man,
Wi’ bluid an’ woun’s they knapt their crowns,
An’ kill’d them in a crack, man,
Our bare-hought boys then cheer’d for joy,
While on their knees they hurkl’d,
An’ loud did praise the Scottish Greys
Wha’ had their enemies conquer’d;
For, warna them, they’d a’ been slain,
As sure’s they were alive, man;
For ilka man was o’ the clan,
The French dogs they had five, man.
Wi’ Highland rage they did engage,
An’ fast the Frenchmen wounded,
Wha tried to rin, but couidna win,
They were so well surrounded—
They hack’t an’ hasht, an’ stick’t an’ gash’t,
Nae quarters to them gave, man,
But wi’ a curse sent man an’ horse
To quarter in his grave, man.
Then shrill an’ heigh the pipes did screigh,
The Greys their bugles blew, man,
Which made the heart of Bonaparte
To sink on Waterloo, man.
‘These pipes,’ said he, ‘have haunted me
In every place I’ve gone, man,
And here they come again to bum—
The devil break their drone, man.
‘In Egypt’s reel, (I mind it weel)
They play’d a bonny spring, man;
Up gat their braw blue Forty-twa,
An’ danc’d the Highland fling, man,
They made me pay their pipes that day,
And kill’d my Frenchmen brave, man;
An’ made me dance hame o’er to France,
My ain crown’d head to save, man.
‘So I’m afraid that spring they play’d,
This day they will renew, man,
I’ll better rin while I can win,
Afore they come in view, man;
I wadna fear the Cossacks sair,
Wi’ spears o’ pointed steel, man;
But by my fegs, the Scots bare legs
Wad fright the very D—l, man.
So in a pet aff hame he set,
Nae lager wad he bide, man,
The cowardly loon, to Paris town
That very night did ride, man,
An’ left his men upon the plain,
Wha kentna what to do, man,
Sae in a bing, their guns did fling,
An’ ran frae Waterloo, man.
Now we’ve got peace, and in that case
We’ll hae an interview, man,
Wi’ our brave boys, chief o’ our joys,
Wha fought at Waterloo, man;
An’ Donnel now ance mair will view
His mither’s whisky pat, man,
An’ dance an’ drink, an’ never think
Of a’ the woun’s he gat, man.
Lang may the Scots wear tartan coats,
Which is their country’s pride, man,
Wi’ Highland plaids baith lang and braid,
To wallop at their side, man,
A highland man’s a happy man,
He’s hardy ay and frisky,
He fears nae foes gin he gets brose,
An’ draps o’ Highland whiskey,
Now here’s a health to men of wealth,
An’ men o’ low degree, man;
Here’s happy lives to men an’ wives,
And here’s to you an’ me, man;
Altho’ my sang be very lang,
A langer sang I’ve seen, man,
I’ll tak a glass, an’ let it pass—
Huzza! God save the King, man.