Ballads on Mr. Heron’s Election, 1795

“‘Twas in the seventeen hunderyear
O’ grace, and ninety-five,
That year I was the wae’est man
Of ony man alive.

In March the three-an’-twentieth morn,
The sun raiseclear an’bright;
But oh! I was a waefu’ man,
Ereto-fa’o’ the night.

Yerl Galloway langdid rule this land,
Wi’ equal right and fame,
And thereto was his kinsmen join’d,
The Murray’s noble name.

Yerl Galloway’s man o’ men was I,
And chief o’ Broughton’s host;
So twablind beggars, on a string,
The faithfu’ tykewill trust.

But now Yerl Galloway’s sceptre’s broke,
And Broughton’s wi’ the slain,
And I my ancient craftmay try,
Sin’honesty is gane.

‘Twas by the banks o’ bonieDee,
Beside Kirkcudbright’s towers,
The Stewart and the Murray there,
Did muster a’ their powers.

Then Murray on the auld grey yaud,
Wi’ winged spurs did ride,
That auldgrey yauda’ Nidsdale rade,
He stawupon Nidside.

And there had na been the Yerlhimsel,
O there had been naeplay;
But Garlies was to London gane,
And sae the kyemight stray.

And there was Balmaghie, I ween,
In front rank he wadshine;
But Balmaghie had better been
Drinkin’ Madeira wine.

And frae Glenkens cam to our aid
A chief o’ doughty deed;
In case that worthshould wanted be,
O’ Kenmure we had need.

And byour banners march’d Muirhead,
And Buittle was naslack;
Whasehalypriesthood nanecould stain,
For whacould dye the black?

And there was grave squire Cardoness,
Look’d on tilla’was done;
Sae in the tower o’ Cardoness
A howletsits at noon.

And there led I the Bushby clan,
My gamesome billie, Will,
And my son Maitland, wise as brave,
My footsteps follow’d still.

The Douglas and the Heron’s name,
We setnought to their score;
The Douglas and the Heron’s name,
Had felt our weight before.

ButDouglasses o’ weight had we,
The pair o’lusty lairds,
For building cot-houses saefam’d,
And christenin’ kail-yards.

And there Redcastle drew his sword,
That ne’er was stain’d wi’gore,
Save on a wand’rer lame and blind,
To drive him frae his door.

And last camcreepin’ Collieston,
Was mairin fear than wrath;
Aeknave was constant in his mind-
To keep that knave fraescaith.”

By |2018-11-12T18:28:55+00:00November 12th, 2018|1795, Robert Burns Poems, Song, Type, Year|

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