The battles ower ,smoke settles ower the moor,
Clans are broken flying aff tae the hills.
Redcoated sodjers mingle with red Heilan blude,
Killing the wounded in Drumossie mud.
Oor Prince has fled leaving dreams in the dust,
Of a Stuart oan the throne that was oor lust,
like the heron scared of mans approach
fleeing his home being taen awa tae France.
Some say he was a bonnie lad cam frae italia way,
Heir tae the royale throne pretending tae be king,
Nae clue or fighting skill but the bonnie prince could sing.
Noo he was being led awa tae catch a boat tae tak him awa.
It was spoken of in tones hushed and still,
Ane day he wid return tae claim the throne,
Frae ower the watter oor king wid come,
Alang wi lairds cawed awa tae France.
© Andrew Provan McIntyre 2016-05-28
We came down from the hills, our hearts were full of sorrow
The enemy had totalled us, were ready for a fight
Six weary soldiers on the hillside, not waiting for tomorrow
The battle it had drained us, killing most throughout the night
Blood soaked and wounded, our lives, the enemy won't borrow
Don't turn away, move to fight your foe
Dont' turn away, you cannot be too slow
Youv'e got him on the run now, the broardsword's done its worst
Youv'e got him on the run now, the foe is dying and cursed
The heather's in full bloom, the sky is full of birds
Enemy corpes fill the moat, weapons scattered too
We always said that you should not trust his words
History has shown this to be the case once again
No more will we heed the lies, that come from foreign lairds
Don't turn away, move to fight your foe
Don't turn away, you cannot be too slow
Youv'e got him on the run now, the broadswords done it's worst
Youv'e got him on the run now, the foe is dying and cursed
Aye... 'tis nay awa' e'er seen,
Faere lass ha' coom a'shore,
Frill bonnet oot & lairds do preen,
Prim lass ayre coom folklore.
'Twas maid fa's upon us few,
Such singin' springtime dew.
Smitten swain nane a'dither,
Wh'aur his hame coom hither.
Nay tae brak such trill sweet song,
E'er drifted throo day long.
Naethin' seen o'bonny lass,
Fae o'erhigh sun sae coom tae pass.
Prim her brow yet cauld her e'e,
Whistlin' gane she's sae coom to dae.
Hae nae e'er else nor song such e'ermore,
Faere lass ha' coom ashore.
SeaWolf
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