O’er bush, o’er bank, o’er ditch, o’er stark, She flang amang them a’, man; The butter-box got many knocks, Their riggings paid for a’ then. They got their paiks, wi sudden straiks, Which to their grief they saw, man: Wi clinkum, clankum o’er their crowns, The lads began to fa’ then. Hur skipt about, hur leapt about, And flang amang them a’, man; The English blades got broken beads, Their crowns were cleav’d in twa then. The durk and door made their last hour, And prov’d their final fa’, man; They thought the devil had been there, That play’d them sic a paw then. The Solemn League and Covenant Came whigging up the hills, man; Thought Highland trews durst not refuse For to subscribe their bills then. In Willie’s name, they thought nag ane Durst stop their course at a’, man, But hur-nane-sell, wi mony a knock, Cry’d, “Furich—Whigs awa’,” man. Sir Evan Du, and his men true, Came linking up the brink, man; The Hogan Dutch they feared such, They bred a horrid stink then. The true Maclean and his fierce men Came in amang them a’, man; Nane durst withstand his heavy hand. All fled and ran awa’ then. _Oh’ on a ri_, _Oh’ on a ri_, Why should she lose King Shames, man? _Oh’ rig in di_, _Oh’ rig in di_, She shall break a’ her banes then; With _furichinish_, an’ stay a while, And speak a word or twa, man, She’s gi’ a straike, out o’er the neck, Before ye win awa’ then. Oh fy for shame, ye’re three for ane, Hur-nane-sell’s won the day, man; King Shames’ red-coats should be hung up, Because they ran awa’ then. Had bent their brows, like Highland trows, And made as lang a stay, man, They’d sav’d their king, that sacred thing, And Willie’d ran awa’ then. ANNAN WATER (_Child_, vol. ii. Early Edition.) “ANNAN water’s wading deep, And my love Annie’s wondrous bonny; And I am laith she suld weet her feet, Because I love her best of ony. “Gar saddle me the bonny black,— Gar saddle sune, and make him ready: For I will down the Gatehope-Slack, And all to see my bonny ladye.”— He has loupen on the bonny black, He stirr’d him wi’ the spur right sairly; But, or he wan the Gatehope-Slack, I think the steed was wae and weary. He has loupen on the bonny gray, He rade the right gate and the ready; I trow he would neither stint nor stay, For he was seeking his bonny ladye. O he has ridden o’er field and fell, Through muir and moss, and mony a mire; His spurs o’ steel were sair to bide, And fra her fore-feet flew the fire. “Now, bonny grey, now play your part! Gin ye be the steed that wins my deary, Wi’ corn and hay ye’se be fed for aye, And never spur sall make you wearie.”