Tranent Muir.
[Tune, "Killiecrankie."—In the Note to "Johnnie Cope" (page 129) we have given some account of the author of this song, Adam Skirving, a farmer in Haddingtonshire. The battle of Tranent Muir or Preston, as we there state, was fought on the 22d September, 1745. We may here notice some of the lesser personages mentioned in the song. "Menteith the great," and "Simson keen," mentioned in verses 5th and 6th, were reverend clergymen and volunteers in the royal army. The latter had two pistols in his pockets, two in his holsters, and one in his belt. "Myrie," verse 7th, was a student of physic from Jamaica, and a volunteer in the royal army; he was severely wounded. "Lieutenant Smith," 9th and 10th stanzas, was an Irishman, who is said to have displayed much pusillanimity in the fight. He, however, challenged Skirving for the manner in which he was spoken of. "I have heard the anecdote often," says Burns, "that Lieut. Smith came to Haddington after the publication of the song, and sent a challenge to Skirving to meet him at Haddington, and answer for the unworthy manner in which he had noticed him in his song. 'Gang awa' back,' said the honest farmer, 'and tell Mr. Smith that I ha'e nae leisure to come to Haddington; but tell him to come here, and I'll tak' a look o' him, and if I think I'm fit to fecht him, I'll fecht him; and if no—I'll do as he did—I'll rin awa.'"]
The Chevalier, being void of fear,
Did march up Birslie brae, man,
And through Tranent, ere he did stent,
As fast as he could gae, man;
While General Cope did taunt and mock,
Wi' mony a loud huzza, man;
But ere next morn proclaim'd the cock,
We heard anither craw, man.
The brave Lochiel, as I heard tell,
Led Camerons on in cluds, man;
The morning fair, and clear the air,
They lowsed with devilish thuds, man:
Down guns they threw, and swords they drew,
And soon did chase them aif, man;
On Seaton Crafts they bufft their chafts,
And gart them rin like daft, man.
The bluff dragoons swore, Blood and 'oons,
They'd make the rebels run, man;
And yet they flee when them they see,
And winna fire a gun, man,
They turn'd their back, the foot they brake,
Such terror seized them a', man;
Some wet their cheeks, some fyled their breeks,
And some for fear did fa', man.
The volunteers prick'd up their ears,
And vow gin they were crouse, man;
But when the bairns saw't turn to earn'st,
They were not worth a louse, man:
Maist feck gaed hame—O, fy for shame!
They'd better stay'd awa', man,
Than wi' cockade to make parade,
And do nae good at a', man.
Menteith the great, where Hersell sate,
Un'wares did ding her ower, man;
Yet wadna stand to bear a hand,
But aff fu' fast did scour, man:
Ower Soutra hill, ere he stood still,
Before he tasted meat, man:
Troth, he may brag of his swift nag,
That bare him aff sae fleet, man.
And Simson keen, to clear the een
Of rebels far in wrang, man,
Did never strive wi' pistols five,
But gallop'd wi' the thrang, man:
He turn'd his back, and in a crack
Was cleanly out of sight, man;
And thought it best; it was nae jest
Wi' Highlanders to fight, man.
'Mangst a' the gang, nane bade the bang
But twa', and ane was tane, man,
For Campbell rade, but Myrie staid,
And sair he paid the kain, man:
Fell skelps he got, was waur than shot,
Frae the sharp-edged claymore, man;
Frae many a spout came running out
His reeking-het red gore, man.
But Gard'ner brave did still behave
Like to a hero bright, man;
His courage true, like him were few,
That still despised flight, man:
For king and laws, and country's cause,
In honour's bed he lay, man,
His life, but not his courage, fled,
While he had breath to draw, man.
And Major Bowle, that worthy soul,
Was broupht down to the ground, man;
His horse being shot, it was his lot
For to get mony a wound, man.
Lieutenant Smith, of Irish birth,
Frae whom he called for aid, man,
Being full of dread, lap ower his head,
And wadna be gainsaid, man.
He made sic haste, sae spurr'd his beast,
'Twas little there he saw, man;
To Berwick rade, and safely said,
The Scots were rebels a', man.
But let that end, for weel 'tis kend
His use and wont to lie, man;
The Teague is naught, he never fought,
When he had room to flee, man.
And Caddell drest, amang the rest,
With gun and good claymore, man,
On gelding grey, he rode that way,
With pistols set before, man:
The cause was good, he'd spend his bluid,
Before that he would yield, man;
But the night before, he left the cor',
And never took the field, man.
But gallant Rodger, like a soger,
Stood and bravely fought, man;
I'm wae to tell, at last he fell,
But mae down wi' him brought, man:
At point of death, wi' his last breath,
(Some standing round in ring, man,)
On's back lying flat, he waved his hat,
And cry'd, God save the king, man.
Some Highland rogues, like hungry dogs,
Neglecting to pursue, man,
About they faced, and in great haste
Upon the booty flew, man;
And they, as gain for all their pain,
Are deck'd wi' spoils of war, man;
Fu' bauld can tell how her nainsell
Was ne'er sae pra pefore, man.
At the thorn tree, which you may see
Bewest the Meadow-mill, man,
There mony slain lay on the plain,
The clans pursuing still, man.
Sic unco hacks, and deadly whacks,
I never saw the like, man;
Lost hands and heads cost them their deads,
That fell near Preston-dyke, man.
That afternoon, when a' was done,
I gaed to see the fray, man;
But had I wist what after past,
I'd better staid away, man:
In Seaton Sands, wi' nimble hands,
They pick'd my pockets bare, man;
But I wish ne'er to drie sic fear,
For a' the sum and mair, man.