Broadside entitled 'The Highland Man's Lament'

Transcription

THE             26

Highland Man's Lament,

For the Death of Donald Bayn, alias M'evan Vanifranck, who was Execute in
the Grass Market of Edinburgh, on Wednesday the 9th Day of Jannary 1723.

Tonald Bayn her nane dear Shoy,
Maks a' Folk sad save Robin Roy.
Who kend him sin he was a Boy,
hernane sell Swons,
To think he'd hangs like Gilderoy,
by Laulan Louns.
Ohon, ohon, for Land of Rese,
Sin Tonald's hang'd for common Theif,
Not on kind Gallows at the Crief,
indeef no fair,
Pra Shentlemen her nane sels Cheif,
did a hing there,
Teel spread his Net out o're them a,
That took stout Tonald's Life awa,
And Troun them in the Wel of Spa
or Peterhead,
Shame fa the feckless Lauthian Law.
for now he's dead.
By great St. Patricks Sauts he swears,
While either Targe or Trous she wears,
The Clans shall fall out by the Ears,
without a Cure,
For dinny think her nane sel sears,
a Shirrif-muir.
May Bess   at   Hame ne're pear te pairn,
Hen lay the Egg, or Mage steal Yarn,
Or Alaster lift Cows from Nairn,
but the Monro's,
By weight of her Claemore shall learn,
to ken their Foes.
And by te Panes of K. M duff,
Te Frasers shall get sik a cuff,
We'l bray them a' as sma as Snuff,
bloody-battle,
Syne her nane sell will gang and Truff,
a' their Cattle.
But Robin Roy, she fears ye will,
Ne're smell Powder, but stand still,
And see her pread Sword hack and kill,
mony Hunder.
Syne came scouring down the Hill,
for the Plunder.
Donald and her, for mony a Day,
Eat Kebbecks, and drank Huskiebae;
And syne took up te Trumps to play,
Mcferson' s Rant.
Wee liv'd as blyth as the Lord Gray.
or Laird of Grant.
Throu Murray-Land, and Huntly Heth,
We chas'd the Gypsies out of Breath
Put them and Tinklers a' to Death,
and spoil'd their Carcks:
The Chapmen sand our Highland Wrath,
we toom'd their Packs.

Whan Mar her nane sells King did press,
Men for to take in Imverness,
We lifted the Excise and Cess,
gae Swiss their Paiks.
The Tutch, so frighted with our Dress,
got hearty Straiks.
For to meet him, it was nae Mows,
He was the warst of Worrie-Cows,
Rob Roy's Heart fell in the Hows,
when he saw him.
They parted ay we' bloody Pows,
he was so slim.
Twenty Thousand Merks in Gold,
Robin o're a Green Truff told
To twa M Grigors that were bold,
for to buy Cows,
But she Trous Donald, did lay hold
upon their Trows.
For he fleg'd that M' Grigor Crew,
Fast frae Tonald's Claws they flew ;
Tonald and Alaster he flew,
ne're Lochkater:
Took a' their Gear, and them he threw,
in a Water.
Pe sure, her nane sell never saw,
Te' Man tat valued less to Law,
For he gae Folk, cald Coals to blaw,
which gard them groan.
And when he carried all away.
cry' d Pockmohon.
Te like of this did ne're befal us,
Tonald as stout as William Wallace,
Was guarded by, te Southland Fallows,
her Heart will plead.
For his pare Arse to grace the Gallows
and now he's tead.
May her sell ne're trip Athol Hill,
Nor never see the Sneizing Mill;
Nortrink of Huskiebae a Gill,
or wear te Durk;
If the Monro's she doe not kill,
and Fight like Turk
M'cleods, M'tonalds and M' panes,
And a te M's tat kend him anes,
Hing toun te Head, and mak great Mains,
we' Cronohs sair.
For Tonald' s can Pelow te Stanes,
we ill cou'd spare.
Te Clans will make te firy fery,
Frae Fokoburss to Inverary,
And frae Glensheils doun to Glengary,
for Tonald Bayn,
I fear te Plots will a' miscarry,
sin Tonald's gane.

FINIS.         

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