When day, expiring in the west, The curtain draws o’ Nature’s rest, I flee to his arms I lo’e best, And that’s my ain dear Davie. IT WAS A’ FOR OUR RIGHTFU’ KING 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. Now a’ is done that men can do, And a’ is done in vain; My love and native land farewell, For I maun cross the main, My dear, For I maun cross the main. He turn’d him right and round about Upon the Irish shore; And gae his bridle-reins a shake, With adieu for evermore, My dear, Adieu for evermore. The sodger from the wars returns, The sailor frae the main; But I hae parted frae my love, Never to meet again, My dear, Never to meet again. When day is gane, and night is come, And a’ folk boune to sleep, I think on him that’s far awa’, The lee-lang night, and weep, My dear, The lee-lang night, and weep. WHEN I THINK ON THE HAPPY DAYS When I think on the happy days I spent wi’ you, my dearie; And now what lands between us lie, How can I be but eerie! How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, As ye were wae and weary! It was na sae ye glinted by When I was wi’ my dearie. THERE’LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME By yon castle wa’, at the close of the day, I heard a man sing, tho’ his head it was grey: And as he was singing, the tears down came— ‘There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. ‘The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars; We dare na weel say’t, but we ken wha’s to blame— There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. ‘My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd; It brak the sweet heart o’ my faithfu’ auld dame— There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. ‘Now life is a burden that bows me down, Sin’ I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown; But till my last moment my words are the same— There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.’ KENMURE’S ON AND AWA O Kenmure’s on and awa, Willie! O Kenmure’s on and awa! And 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.