Quoth I, ‘My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird, Is that a sang ye borrow? Are these some words ye’ve learnt by heart, Or a lilt o’ dool an’ sorrow?’ ‘O! no, no, no,’ the wee bird sang, ‘I’ve flown sin’ mornin’ early, But sic a day o’ wind an’ rain-- Oh! wae’s me for Prince Charlie! On hills that are by right his ain, He roams a lonely stranger, On ilka hand he’s press’d by want, On ilka side by danger: Yestreen I met him in a glen, My heart maist burstit fairly; For sairly changed indeed was he-- O! wae’s me for Prince Charlie!’ Dark night cam’ on, the tempest roar’d Cauld o’er the hills an’ valleys; An’ whaur was’t that your prince lay down, Whase hame should be a palace? He row’d him in a Hieland plaid, Which cover’d him but sparely, An’ slept beneath a bush o’ broom-- O! wae’s me for Prince Charlie! But now the bird saw some red-coats, An’ he shook his wings wi’ anger; ‘O! this is no a land for me; I’ll tarry here nae langer.’ A while he hover’d on the wing, Ere he departed fairly, But weel I mind the fareweel strain Was ‘Wae’s me for Prince Charlie!’ _William Glen._ BOULTON CLIX SKYE BOAT-SONG _Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing, ‘Onward’ the sailors cry; Carry the lad that’s born to be king Over the sea to Skye!_ Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar, Thunder-clouds rend the air; Baffled, our foes stand by the shore, Follow they will not dare. Though the waves leap, soft shall ye sleep; Ocean’s a royal bed. Rocked in the deep, Flora will keep Watch by your weary head. Many’s the lad fought on that day Well the claymore could wield, When the night came silently lay Dead on Culloden’s field. Burned are our homes, exile and death Scatter the loyal men; Yet ere the sword cool in the sheath Charlie will come again. _Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing, ‘Onward’ the sailors cry; Carry the lad that’s born to be king Over the sea to Skye!_ _Harold Boulton._ MATHESON CLX A KISS OF THE KING’S HAND It wasna from a golden throne, Or a bower with milk-white roses blown, But ’mid the kelp on northern sand That I got a kiss of the King’s hand. I durstna raise my een to see If he even cared to glance at me; His princely brow with care was crossed, For his true men slain and kingdom lost. Think not his hand was soft and white Or his fingers a’ with jewels dight, Or round his wrists were ruffles grand, When I got a kiss of the King’s hand. But dearer far to my twa een Was the ragged sleeve of red and green Owre that young weary hand that fain With the guid broadsword had found its ain. Farewell for ever! the distance grey And the lapping ocean seemed to say-- For him a home in a foreign land, And for me one kiss of the King’s hand.