A curse on dull and drawling Whig, The whining, ranting, low deceiver, Wi’ heart sae black, and look sae big, And canting tongue o’ clishmaclaver! My father was a good lord’s son, My mother was an earl’s daughter, And I’ll be Lady Keith again, That day our king comes owre the water. _Anonymous._ BURNS CLII O’ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE _We’ll o’er the water, we’ll o’er the sea, We’ll o’er the water to Charlie! Come weal, come woe, we’ll gather and go, And live and die wi’ Charlie._ Come, boat me o’er, come row me o’er, Come boat me o’er to Charlie! I’ll gie John Ross another bawbee To boat me o’er to Charlie. I lo’e weel my Charlie’s name, Though some there be abhor him; But, O! to see Auld Nick gaun hame, And Charlie’s foes before him! I swear and vow by moon and stars And sun that shines so early, If I had twenty thousand lives, I’d die as aft for Charlie! _We’ll o’er the water, we’ll o’er the sea, We’ll o’er the water to Charlie! Come weal, come woe, we’ll gather and go, And live and die wi’ Charlie!_ _Robert Burns._ CLIII A SONG OF EXILE Frae the friends and land I love Driv’n by Fortune’s felly spite, Frae my best belov’d I rove, Never mair to taste delight! Never mair maun hope to find Ease frae toil, relief frae care. When remembrance wracks the mind, Pleasures but unveil despair. Brightest climes shall mirk appear, Desert ilka blooming shore, Till the Fates, nae mair severe, Friendship, love, and peace restore; Till Revenge with laurell’d head Bring our banish’d hame again, And ilk loyal, bonnie lad Cross the seas, and win his ain! _Robert Burns._ CLIV KENMURE’S MARCH O, Kenmure’s on and awa, Willie, O, Kenmure’s on and awa! An’ Kenmure’s lord’s the bravest lord That ever Galloway saw! Success to Kenmure’s band, Willie, Success to Kenmure’s band! There’s no a heart that fears a Whig That rides by Kenmure’s hand. Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine, Willie, Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine! There ne’er was a coward o’ Kenmure’s blude, Nor yet o’ Gordon’s line. O, Kenmure’s lads are men, Willie, O, Kenmure’s lads are men! Their hearts and swords are metal true, And that their faes shall ken. They’ll live or die wi’ fame, Willie, They’ll live or die wi’ fame! But soon wi’ sounding Victorie May Kenmure’s lord come hame! Here’s him that’s far awa, Willie, Here’s him that’s far awa! And here’s the flower that I lo’e best-- The rose that’s like the sna! _Robert Burns._ CLV A JACOBITE’S FAREWELL It was a’ for our rightfu’ king We left fair Scotland’s strand; It was a’ for our rightfu’ king, We e’er saw Irish land, My dear-- We e’er saw Irish land.