“Out of the mist whenever we list,
And into the mist once more!
Oh, it’s hand to hilt, and the doomed to die,
As ever it was of yore!
“Oh, the Rose will soon be sere and sad
Beneath the winter rain!
Not all the blood in broad Scotlànd
Can make it bloom again.”
[B] Gaelic Duione Sidhe (shee) = fairy-folk.
BALLAD OF LONDON TOWN
A SONG OF THE FORTY-FIVE
Oh, London is a bonnie town
Whose streets are paved with gold;
And out o’ the North my friends came forth
That gift to have and hold.
There was one who rode before us a’
From Perth to Preston town,
Wi’ winsome word and shining sword,
To gain a golden crown.
Oh, his head was high, and his gallant brow
Was blithe as a merry morn—
But a’ we won for his father’s son
Was a crown o’ piercing thorn.
The Chief led forth his Hielandmen
Wi’ pipes a’ sounding shrill—
And the gift he got was the grisly axe,
Red-wet on Tower Hill.
Oh, I came forth fra’ the naked North
Wi’ lord and loon and laird—
And a’ the gold they gave to me
Was the straw in Newgate yard.