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7
Till Charlie Stewart cam at last
Sae far to set us free;
My Donald’s arm was wanted then,
For Scotland and for me.
Their waefu’ fate what need I tell—
Right to the wrang did yieid;
My Donald and his country fell
Upon Culloden field!
I hae nocht left me aya,
Ochon, ochon, ochrie!
But bonnie orphan lad-weans twa,
To seek their bread wi’ me.'
I hae yet a tocher hand,
Ochon, ochon, oolirie.
My winsome Donald's durk an’ bran’,
Into their hands to gie:
There’s only ae blink o’ hope left,
To lighten my auld ee,
To see my bairns git: bluidie crowns,
To them gar't Donald die!
WITHIN A MILE OF EDINBURGH.
’Twas within, a mile of Edinburgh town,
In the rosy time of the year,
