Burned are our homes, exile and death
Scatter the loyal men;
Yet ere the sword cool in the sheath
Charlie will come again.
Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,
‘Onward’ the sailors cry;
Carry the lad that’s born to be king
Over the sea to Skye!
Harold Boulton.
MATHESON
CLX
A KISS OF THE KING’S HAND
It wasna from a golden throne,
Or a bower with milk-white roses blown,
But ’mid the kelp on northern sand
That I got a kiss of the King’s hand.
I durstna raise my een to see
If he even cared to glance at me;
His princely brow with care was crossed,
For his true men slain and kingdom lost.
Think not his hand was soft and white
Or his fingers a’ with jewels dight,
Or round his wrists were ruffles grand,
When I got a kiss of the King’s hand.