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[From the Rare Books Library at Guelph
University, Ontario #S0094b25]
THE
HIGHLAND PIPER’S
ADVICE
to
drinkers, to which are added
Home,
sweet sweeet home Wallace’s Lament.
Connel and
Flora, Here is the glen.
Oh hey
Johny lad, and Charlie is my
D A R L I
N G ,
AIRDIRE.
Printed by J & J
Neil, Bookbinders, and
Printers,
No 21 High Street, where may be had
a
variety of song Toy and School Books, Cards &c.
- Page 2 -
THE
PIPER’S ADVICE.
Now my
pra’ ponnie lads I wul’ just tell you what,
whene’er that you’l toon by the stoup-whisky sat.
Ta hearty goot freenships, your whisles pa’ wat,
Just tuck the goot trams but no fill yoursels fou’
I’er oich! Pe’sin fu’ pe shame fu’ an’ a’
to fill yoursels fu’ as pe haud pe the wa’,
Or toon in the tirty hole gutters pe fa’,
an’ wallow the mire like the unwikle plack sow.
She’s sure
gin you juist tak the troubles pe look,
the place I’m forgot in the pra’ bible puek,
I’e tell you that you ta’ wil (?) trapies mocht tuek,
for goot o’ ta’ pody no fil yoursell fu’.
You mocht tuekit no’ glass you mocht tunekit twa,
yon moclit tuekit-sax for pa help him awa’
But oich dinna tuek him to gar yoursels fa’,
for that wad play tamn an’ hellnations wi’ you
The
whiskys pe goot when ta’ pelly pe sote,
pe gost when shone heelanman tfaws’ ums claymore,
For t’en he’l perform ta’ great wonders galyore,
Sae lang as ta’ dirk or ta’ skean stood true,
I’e goot for ta’ peoples in all sort o’ station,
if they wal pe use her in due poderation,
But when they’ll pep use her wi’ toxification,
far petter pa fuicht wi’ ta’ mackle plack teil.
- Page
3 –
The whisky
spread joy an’ ta’ whisky spread woe,
the
whiskys pe freen’ an’ ts’ whiskys pe foe
An’ shust
as you’ll treat him he’ll shust use youso,
hims goods
an’ hims nevils shust pend upon you.
An, nowmy
pra’ lads this goot vice I will gie,
whene’er
that you’ll meet wi’ the shone parley pree’,
Shust tuck
your goot glass’s ane twa nor three,
put oich
tuskit care, no pa piper bitch feu’.
HOME, SWEET HOME.
Sea to music
by Bishop.
Mid
pleasures, and palaces, tho’ we may roam,
Be it ever
so humble there’s no place like home,
A charm
from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which,
seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home.
There’s
no place like home – there’s no place like home.
An exile
from home, splendour dazzles in vain,
O give me
my lowly thatch’d cottage again,
The birds
singing gaily that came at my call,
Give me
them, with thy peace of mind, dearer than all
Home, home, sweet, sweet home.
There’s
no place like home – there’s no place like home.
-
Page 4 –
WALLACE’S LAMENT
Tune. – Maids of Arochar.
Thou
dark-winding Carron once pleasing to see
To me thou
can sit never give pleasure again;
My brave
Caledonians lie low on the lee
And thy
streams are deep-ting’d with
The blood
of the slain.
Ah!
base-hearted treach’ry has doom’d our un-doing,
My poor
bleeding country what more can I do!
E’en
valour looks pale o’er the red field of ruin,
And
freedom beholds her best warriors laid low,
Farewell,
ye dear partners of peril, farewell;
Though
buried ye lie in one wide bloody grave,
Your deeds
shall ennoble the place where you fell,
And your
names be enrol’d with the sons of tha brave!
But I, a
poor outcast, in exile must wander.
Perhaps
like a traitor ignobly must die?
On thy
wrongs, O! my country, indignant I ponder;
A la! Woe
to the hour when thy Wallace must fly!
- Page
5 –
CONNEL AND FLORA.
Set to Music by Smith.
Dark
lowers the night o’er the wide stormy man,
Till mild
rosy morning rise cheerful
Alas!
morn returns to revisit the shore,
But Connel
returns to his Flora no more.
For see on
yon mountain the dark cloud of death,
O’er
Connel’s lone cottage lies low on the heath,
While
bloody and pale, on a far distant shore,
He lies,
to return to his Flora no more.
Ye light
fleeting spirits that glide o’er yon steep,
O would
you but waft me across the wide deep!
There
fearless I’d mix in the battle’s loud roar –
I’d die
with my Connel and leave him no more.
HERE IS THE GLEN.
Here is
the glen, and here the bower
All
underneath the birchen shade,
The
village bell had tol’d the hour,
O what can
stay my lovely maid.
-
Page 6 –
‘Tis not
Maria’s whispering call: --
‘Tis but
the balmy breathing gale,
Mixt with
somewarbler’s dying fall,
The dewy
star of eve to hail.
It is
Maria’s voice I hear,
So calls
the wood-lark in the grove,
His little
faithfull mate to cheer,
At once
‘tis music – and ‘tis love.
And art
thou come, and art thou true?
O welcome
dear to love and me;
And let us
all our vows renew,
Along the
flowery banks of Cree.
OCH,
HEY, JONEY LAD.
Och hey
Jonny lad!
Ye’er no
sae kind’s ye soud, hae been;
Och hey,
Johnny lad!
Ye didna
keep your tryst yestreen;
I waited
lang beside the wood,
Sae wae
an’ weary a.my lane;
Och hey,
Johnny lad!
It was a
waefu nght yestreen.
I looked
by the whinny knowe,
I looked
by the firs sae green
- Page 7 –
I looked
o’er the spunkie howe,
An, ay I
thought ye wad ha ‘e been,
The ne’er
a supper crost my craig,
The ne’er
a sleep his clos’t my een,
Och hey,
Johnny lad!
Ye’re no
sae kind’s ye soud hae been.
“Gin ye
war waitin by the wood,
Its I was
waitin by the thorn;
I thought
it was the place we set,
An, waited
maist till dawning morn
But be au
vext, my bonnie lass,
Let my
waiting stan,for thine;
We’ll awa
to Birkton shaw,
And seek
the joys we tint yestreen.”
MARCH TO
THE BATTLE FIELD.
March to
the battle field,
The foe is
now before us:
Each heart
is fredom’s shield;
And heaven
is smiling o’er us
The woes
and pains, the galling chains,
Which kept
our spirits under,
In proud
disdain we’ve broke again,
And tore
each link asunder
March to the battle field, etc
Who for
his country brave,
Would fly
from her invader?
- Page 8 –
Who, his
base life to save,
Would
traitor-like degrade her?
Our
hallowed cause,our home and laws,
‘Gainst
tyrant power sustaining,
We’ll gain
a crown of bright renown,
Or die our
rights maintaining
March to
the battle field, etc.
CHARLIE
IS MY DARLING.
Charlie is my darling,
my darling, my darling,
O Charlie is my darling,
the young Chevalier.
‘Twas on a
Monday morning,
right
early in the year,
When
Charlie came to our town,
the young
Chevalier.
As he came
marching up the street
the pipes
play’d loud and clear;
And a’the
folk came running out
to meet
the Chevalier.
O, Charlie
is my darling, etc.
Wi’
Highland bonnets on their heads,
and
claymores bright and clar;
They came
to fight for Scotland’s right,
and the
young Chevalier.
They’ve
left their bonny Highland hill,
their
wives and bairnies dear;
To draw
the sword for Scotland’s lord,
the young
Chevalier.
O, Charlie
is my darling, etc. |
