'Twas on a Monday morning
Richt early in the year,
That Charlie cam' to our toun,
The Young Chevalier.
An' Charlie he's my darling,
My darling, my darling;
Charlie he's my darling,
The Young Chevalier!
As he was walking up the street,
The city for to view,
Oh, there he spied a bonnie lass
The window looking through.
Sae licht's he jimped up the stair,
An' tirled at the pin;
And wha sae ready as hersel'
To let the laddie in?
He set his Jenny on his knee,
A' in his Highland dress;
For brawly weel he kenn'd the way
To please a bonnie lass.
It's up yon heathery mountain,
An' down yon scroggy glen,
We daurna gang a-milking,
For Charlie an' his men.
An' Charlie he's my darling,
My darling, my darling;
Charlie he's my darling,
The Young Chevalier!
On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast array'd
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven;
Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven;
And louder than the bolts of Heaven
Far flash'd the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainèd snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye Brave
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part, where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES
Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
Ca' them where the heather grows,
Ca' them where the burnie rowes,
My bonnie dearie.
Hark, the mavis' e'ening sang
Sounding Clouden's woods amang;
Then a-faulding let us gang,
My bonnie dearie.
We'll gae down by Clouden side,
Thro' the hazels, spreading wide
O'er the waves that sweetly glide
To the moon sae clearly.
Yonder Clouden's silent towers,
Where, at moonshine's midnight hours,
O'er the dewy bending flowers,
Fairies dance sae cheery.
Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear:
Thou'rt to Love and Heav'n sae dear,
Nocht of ill may come thee near,
My bonnie dearie.
Fair and lovely as thou art,
Thou hast stown my very heart;
I can die - but canna part,
While waters wimple to the sea;
While day blinks in the lift sae hie;
Till clay-cauld death sall blin' my e'e,
Ye sall be my dearie.
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