The Book of Scottish Song/Battle of Sheriff-Muir 3
Battle of Sheriff-Muir.
[This is Burns's version of the battle of Sheriff-muir, which he contributed to Johnson's Museum, and which, as will be seen, is founded on the preceding.]
O, cam' ye here the fecht to shun,
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man;
Or was ye at the Shirra-muir,
And did the battle see, man?
I saw the battle, sair and teuch,
And reekin' red ran mony a sheuch;
My heart, for fear, ga'e sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds,
O' clans frae wuds, in tartan duds,
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.
The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades,
To meet them were na slaw, man;
They rush'd, and push'd, and bluid out-gush'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 broadswords clash'd,
And through they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd,
Till fey men died awa', man.
But had you seen the philabegs,
And skyrin' tartan trews, man,
When in the teeth they daur'd our Whigs
And covenant true-blues, man:
In lines extended lang and large,
When bayonets opposed 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 doos, man.
O how deil, Tam, can that be true?
The chase gaed frae the north, man;
I saw mysell, 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 straight to Stirling wing'd their flight;
But, cursed lot! the gates were shut,
And mony a huntit puir red-coat
For fear amaist did swarf, man.
My sister Kate cam' up the gate,
Wi' crowdie unto me, man
She swore she saw some rebels run
Frae Perth unto Dundee, man:
Their left-hand general had nae skill,
The Angus lads had nae guid-will
That day their neebours' bluid to spill;
For fear, by foes, that they should lose
Their cogs o' brose, they scared at blows.
And homeward fast did flee, man.
They've lost some gallant gentlemen
Amang the Highland clans, man;
I fear my Lord Panmure is slain.
Or in his enemies' hands, man.
Now wad ye sing this double flight,
Some fell for wrang, and some for right;
And mony bade the world gude night;
Say pell and mell, wi' muskets' knell,
How Tories fell, and Whigs to hell
Flew aff in frighted bands, man.