Culloden.
[Nicholson.—Air, "O, are ye sleeping, Maggie?"]
The heath-cock craw'd o'er muir and dale,
Red raise the sun, the sky was cloudy,
While must'ring far wi' distant yell,
The northern bands march'd stern and steady.
O! Duncan, Donald's ready!
O! Duncan, Donald's ready!
Wi' sword an' targe he seeks the charge,
An' frae his shouther flings the plaidie.
Nae mair we chase the fleet-foot roe,
O'er down an' dale, o'er mountain flyin':
But rush like tempests on the foe,
Through mingled groans the war-note cryin'.
O! Duncan, Donald's ready! &c.
A prince is come to claim his ain,
A stem o' Stuart, frien'less Charlie;
What Highlan' han' its blade wad hain?
What Highlan' heart behint would tarry?
O! Duncan, Donald's ready!
I see our hardy clans appear,
The sun back frae their blades is beamin';
The southron trump falls on my ear,
Their banner'd lion's proudly streamin'.
Now, Donald, Duncan's ready!
Now, Donald, Duncan's ready!
Within his hand he grasps his brand;
Fierce is the fray, the field is bluidy!
But lane shall Scotland rue the day,
She saw her flag sae fiercely flying;
Culloden hills were hills o' wae;
Her laurels torn, her warriors dying.
Duncan now nae mair is ready,
Duncan now nae mair is ready!
The brand is fa'en frae out his han',
His bonnet blue lies stain'd an' bluidy!
Fair Flora's gane her love to seek,
Lang may she wait for his returnin';
The midnight dews fa' on her cheek;
What han' shall dry her tears o' mournin'?
Duncan now nae mair is ready, &c.