July? Ach, but mair lik' hairst time,
Cauld and sharny park o' Harlaw
Oor laird, the Earl, bade us come
Tae fecht the Hieland bogeyman
That wid fain scorch oor land'
An take the croon o wir King
Wha's in a Sassenach Jile confined
Tis still mirk as we spy oor enemy
Plaidies rustle fae far awa
Aix and sword catch the first sun's gleam,
While we oor staffs an graips haud fast;
Nae steel, but fairm gweeds hae we,
Jist loons, and auld men fae the toun,
Afore scores o fearsome warriors are we
Yon Earl spiks wi a pan-loaf tongue,
O duty an loyalty tae royal Jamie,
Fa's throne we maun defend this morn
But it's jist anither fecht atween wir betters
That we're bound by law tae follow.
I widna care, Earl, nor Lord pleases me,
Am jist a bothy chiel fae Inverurie
Noo's nae the day for battles an war
But for byden at hame in the chaumer,
Reddin' up the fire, snugglin up wi ma lass,
Fa's been ma bride not but ae 'ear
Am nae seekin death or glory, nae me!
Jist tae win hame in ane piece
An a bittie plunder forbye
Syne the battle's at its heicht,
Men greeting sair, limbs lost an hackit,
Bluid like a torrent streakin fae bodies slain.
Arrows whizz past ma lungs; git doon buddy!
An keep yer heid, nae Hielan aixman's getting me!
I foun' ane o their shields, - a great roon thing –
Tae run ahint an strike oot wi ma staff
It seems like the warld's end, nocht but death
Stalks this field o' fury, castin souls to eternity.
Saints preserve ma! There's anither shot!
Jist pierced ma neeper's airm; he roars an' faa's
Fan I look back tae face a great reid man,
Beard an een lik' fires o hell, he stauns aheid o me
'Marbhidh mi sibh, Sassenaich!' in Erse tung quo' he,
He means tae kill, that much is clear;
Shak's his greit broadsword tae me,
'Ye'll dee yersel, Hielander', I roar an' forrit charge,
Fell him wi his ain folk's shield, tae his surprise,
An' leapt tae ma feet, takin the road wi' aa speed,
Daurna look back at the roars o rage
Fae the Hieland sojer an noo his neepers tae!
Ma lass said last nicht as afore I win't tae war
Better a livin coo'rdie, than a deid hero are ye,
Syne tak yer chance tae flee fan the conflict's thickest,
An back tae ma airms, ma Sandy cam,
Instead o' a widow leavin yer Jean,
Aye and that I will, fair quine,
An safe rowed up wi ye again I'll be,'
A mile, a mile and a mile or three,
Afore I win hame tae the craft o mine
Far Jean said the licht wid in the windae be,
Noo the darkness hangs the trees,
Haps the warld in nicht aince mair
As cowards an' chauncers tak their road hame
Forgettin lairds and laws for comfort o their ain.
At last a licht, lowin' in the windae,
Hame at last, quo me, 'Ma Jean, I'm here,
Far are ye?' Expectin her answerin cry,
But nae soon fae the craft cam by.
I burst intae the door, fearin the worst,
That some ill has been daen tae ma quine.
Inside, a cannel in the windae shines,
But the fire's doon tae bare embers,
An it's caul an dark as daith.
Jean, it's yer Sandy, yer livin coo'ard,
Back wi ye fae Harlaw's bludie airt,'
Then a soon, a wee squeak, lik a moose, comes oot,
And fae behint the aul airmchair comes wee Jean
'Sandy, ye terror!' cries she, squeezing ma in embrace,
'I wiz afeart that some Hieland man wiz trickin ma,
An comin in yer place, but tis yer rascal sel'!'
Aye quine, jist Sandy, a feel tae leave ye,
Damn the Laird, the Hielan men, and aa,
I'll ne'er risk ma life again,
Nor loss ma bonnie, Garioch quine.'