Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, Amang her nestlings, sits the thrush; Her faithfu’ mate will share her toil, Or wi’ his song her cares beguile: But I wi’ my sweet nurslings here, Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, Pass widow’d nights and joyless days, While Willie’s far frae Logan Braes. O wae upon you, men o’ state, That brethren rouse to deadly hate! As ye mak mony a fond heart mourn, Sae may it on your heads return! How can your flinty hearts enjoy The widow’s tears, the orphan’s cry? But soon may peace bring happy days, And Willie hame to Logan Braes! ON THE BATTLE OF SHERIFFMUIR BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND THE EARL OF MAR ‘O cam ye here the fight to shun, Or herd the sheep wi’ me, man? Or were you at the Sherra-muir, And did the battle see, man?’ I saw the battle, sair and teugh, And reeking-red ran mony a sheugh; My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough, To hear the thuds, and see the cluds O’ clans frae woods, in tartan duds, Wha glaum’d at kingdoms three, man. The red-coat lads, wi’ black cockades, To meet them were na slaw, man; They rush’d and push’d, and blude out-gush’d, And mony a bouk did fa’, man: The great Argyle led on his files, I wat they glancèd twenty miles: They hough’d the clans like nine-pin kyles, They hack’d and hash’d, while broadswords clash’d, And thro’ they dash’d, and hew’d and smash’d, Till fey men died awa, man. But had you seen the philibegs, And skyrin tartan trews, man, When in the teeth they dar’d our whigs, And covenant true blues, man; In lines extended lang and large, When baig’nets overpower’d the targe, And thousands hasten’d to the charge, Wi’ Highland wrath they frae the sheath Drew blades o’ death, till, out of breath, They fled like frighted doos, man. ‘O how deil, Tam, can that be true? The chase gaed frae the north, man: I saw mysel, they did pursue The horsemen back to Forth, man; And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, They took the brig wi’ a’ their might, And straught to Stirling wing’d their flight; But, cursèd lot! the gates were shut, And mony a huntit, poor red-coat, For fear amaist did swarf, man.’ My sister Kate cam up the gate Wi’ crowdie unto me, man; She swore she saw some rebels run Frae Perth unto Dundee, man: Their left-hand general had nae skill, The Angus lads had nae guid-will, That day their neibors’ blood to spill; For fear, by foes, that they should lose Their cogs o’ brose, they scared at blows, And hameward fast did flee, man.