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Another Collection

“The Ettrick Shepherd”

     So much is wrote of this gentleman in this book, 20 and a half pages to be exact.

I will quote some of the first page.   

     “The last echoes of the Border Minstrelsy were dying from the memory of the aged,  and the spirit which awakened the strains seemed to have sighed an eternal farewell,
when, arousing from a long slumber, it threw the mantle of inspiration, at the close of
the century, over several sons of song, worthy to bear the lyre of their minstrel sires.
Of these, the most remarkable was James Hogg, commonly designated “The Ettrick
Shepherd.” This distinguished individual was born in the bosom of the romantic vale
of Ettrick, Selkirkshire, one of the most picturesque districts of Scotland. The poet’s
paternal ancestors worked the lands of Fauldshope in Ettrick Forest, and were follow-
ers of the Knights of Harden. For sever generations they followed the simple occupation
of shepherds.  On the mother’s side the poet was descended from the respectable family
of Laidlaw- one of the oldest in Tweeddale.  Robert Hogg, the poet’s father, was a
person of very ordinary sagacity, presenting in this respect a decided contrast to his
wife, Margaret Laidlaw, a woman of superior energy and cultivated mind.  James was
the second son, and he was baptised in his native parish on the 9th of December 1770.
   James saved up his money while working as a shepherd, he had only received six
months of schooling so when he was eighteen he undertook to teach himself to read.
He loved the nature of the hills and their beauty and spent many hours with borrowed
books amongst  his beloved Ettrick hills.........



My name it is Donald MacDonald,
I leeve in the Highlands sae grand;
I ha’e follow’d our banner, and will do,
Wherever my master* has land.
When rankit amang the blue bonnetd,
Nae danger can fear me ava’;
I ken that my brethren around me
Are either to conquer or fa’;
Brogues an’brochin an’a’;
Brochin an’ brogues an’ a’;
An’ is nae her very well aff,
Wi’ her brogues and brochin an’ a’?

What though we befriendit young Charlie?
To tell it I dinna think shame;
Poor lad! He cam’ to us but barely,
An reckoned our mountains his hame.

‘Twas true that our reason forbade us,
But tenderness carried the day;
As Geordie came friendless amang us,
Wi’ him we had a’ gane away,

Sword an’ buckler an’ a’;
Buckler an’ sword an’ a’;
Now for George we’ll encounter the devil,
Wi’ sword an’ buckler an’ a’;

An’ O, I wad eagerly press him
The keys o’ the East to retain;
For should he gi’e up the possession, 
We’ll soon ha’e to force them again;

Than yield up an inch wi’ dishonour,
Though it were my finishing blow,
He aye may depend on MacDonald,
Wi’ his Hielanders a’ in a row:

Knees an’ elbows an’ a’;
Elbows an’ knees an’ a’;
Depend upon Donald MacDonald
His knees an’ elbows an’ a’.

Wad Bonaparte land at Fort William,
Auld Europe nae langer should grane;
I laugh when I think how we’d gall him,
Wi’bullet, wi’ steel, an’ wi’ stane;
Wi’ rocks o’ the Nevis and Garny
We’d rattle him off frae our shore
Or lull him asleep in a cairny,
an’ sing him - “Lochaber no more!” 

An’ sing him - “Lochaber no more!”
Stanes an’ bullets an’ a’;
Bullets an’ stanes an’ a;
We’ll finsish the Corsican callan,
Wi’ stanes an’ bullets an’ a’. 

      * This is the term by which the Highlander was wont to designate his lawful
         Prince. The word “maker” which appears in former editions of the song was
         accidentally printed in the first edition, and the Shepherd never had the
         confidence to alter it.

Air;- “Woo’d , and married, and a’”

                               BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE    By James Hogg

Cam’ ye by Athol, lad wi’ the philabeg,
Down by the Tummel or banks o’ the Garry,
Saw ye our lads wi’ their bonnets and white cockades,
Leaving their mountains to follow Prince Charlie?


Follow thee! Follow thee! Wha wadna follow thee?
Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly!
Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee,
King o’ the Highland hearts,
                       Bonnie Prince Charlie!

                       I ha’e ut ae son, my gallan young Donald;
But if I had ten they should follow Glengary!
Health to M’Donnell and gallant Clan Ronald-
For these are the men that will die for their Charlie!

I’ll to Lochiel and appin, and kneel to them
Down by Lord Murray, and Roy of Kildarlie;
Brave M’Intosh, he shall fly to the field with them,
These are the lads I can trust wi’ my Charlie!

Down through the Lowlands, down wi’ the Whigamore!
Loyal true Highlanders, down wi’ them rarely!
Ronald and Donad, drive on, wi’ the broad claymore,
Over the necks o’ the foes o Prince Charlie!

                               THE SKYLARK*            By James Hogg

Bird of the wilderness
Blythesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o’er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Bless’d in thy dewlling-place–
O to abide in the desert with thee!
Wild is thy lay and loud,
Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O’er fell and mountain sheen,
O’er moor and mountain green,
O’er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow’s rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!
Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms,
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place–
O to abide in the desert with thee!

      * For the fine original air, see Purdie’s “Border Garland” - Hogg


Rise! Rise! Lowland and Highland men;
Bald sire and beardless son, each come, and early;
Rise! Rise! Mainland and island men,
Belt on your broadswords and fight for Prince Charlie!
   Down from the mountain steep,
   Up from the valley deep,
   Out from the clachan, the bothy, and shieling;
   Bugle and battle - drum,
   Bid chief and vassel come;
   Loudly on bagpipe the pibroch are pealing-
   Rise! Rise! Etc......

Men on the mountains! Descendants of heroes!
Heirs of the fame and the hills of your fathers–
Say, shall the Sassenach southron not fear us,
When fierce to the war-peal each plaided clan gathers?
    Long on the trophied walls
    Of our ancestral halls
    Rust hath been blunting the armour of Albin;
    Seize, the, ye mountain Macs,
    Buckler and battle-axe,
    Lads of Lochaber, Braemar, and Breadalbine.
    Rise!  Rise!  Etc....

When hath the tartan plaid mantled a coward!
When did the bonnet blue crest the disloyal?
Up, then, and crowd to the standard of Stuart!
            Follow your hero, the rightful, the royal.
    Come, Chief of Clanronald,
                           And gallant M’Donald;
Come Lovat, Lochiel, with the Grant, and the Gordon;
Rouse every kilted clan,
Rouse every loyal man;
            Musket on shoulder, and thigh the broad sword on!
                            Rise! Rise! Lowland and Highland men,
Bald sire and beardless son, each come, and early;
Belt on your borad swords and fight for Prince Charlie!

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