Note:  All of the samples below are in MP3 format. Click on the  icon to listen to the sample.

SONGS FROM "The Great Silkie - Tales of the Celts"

The Lark in the Morning – Traditional Irish

O the lark in the morning she rises up her nest. She goes out with the dawn and the dew all on her breast.
And like the jolly ploughboy, she whistles and she sings. Comes home in the ev'ning with the dew all on her wings.

O Roger the ploughboy he is a dashing blade. He goes whistlin' and a-singing over yonder green lane. 
He met the dark eyed Susan. She's handsome I declare and far more enticing than the birds all in the air.

One day as they were comin' out a-from the rakes of town, the meadow it was green and the grass it was cut down.
"If I should chance to tumble all in the new mown hay, for it's kiss me now or never lad", this bonny lass did say.

When twenty long weeks they were over and past, her mammy asked the reason why she thickened 'round the waist. 
"It was the handsome ploughboy", the maiden she did say, “For he took me for a tumble all in the new mown hay".

Here's health to you ploughboy, wherever you may be, who likes to have a bonny lass a-sittin' on his knee, 
With a jug of good strong porter, he'll whistle and he'll sing. It makes the ploughboy hap-pier than any prince or a king.

Wraggle Taggle Gypsies – Traditional English

Three gypsies stood at the castle gate. They sang so high, they sang so low.
The lady sate in her chamber late. Her heart it melted away as snow.

They sang so sweet, they sang so shrill. At last her tears began to flow
And she lay down her silken gown, her golden rings and all her show.

She plucked off her high-heeled shoes, a-made of Spanish leather-O
She would in the street with her bare, bare feet all out in the wind and weather-O.

O saddle to me my milk white steed and go and fetch me my pony-O
That I may ride and seek my bride who’s gone with the wraggle taggle gypsies-O!

O he rode high and he rode low, he rode through woods and copses too
Until he came to a cold open field and there he espied his a-lady-O.

“What makes you leave your house and land, your golden treasures for to go?
What makes you leave your new wedded lord, to follow the wraggle taggle gypsies-O?”

“O what care I for my house and land? What care I for my treasures-O?
What care I for my new wedded lord? I’m off with the wraggle taggle gypsies-O!”

“Last night you slept on a goose-feathered bed, with the sheet turned down so bravely-O.
Tonight you sleep in a cold open field along with the wraggle taggle gypsies-O!”

“O what care I for my goose-feathered bed with the sheet turned down so bravely-O?
Tonight I’ll sleep in a cold open field along with the wraggle taggle gypsies-O!”

The Dowie Dens O’ Yarrow – Traditional Scottish

There lived a lady in the north.  You could scarcely find her marrow.
She was courted by nine noble lords and a ploughman lad from Yarrow.

The nine sat drinking at the wine sat drinking wine in Yarrow and they’ve made
a vow among themselves for to fight for her on Yarrow.

She’s washed his face, she’s combed his hair as oft she done before O’ and she’s made
him like a noble lord for to fight for her on Yarrow.

As he came down the high, high hill, down to the homes o’ Yarrow.
‘Twas there he spied nine armed men come to fight with him on Yarrow. 

There’s three he slew and three withdrew and three he wounded sairly-O till her brother
John came in from behind and has wounded him most fouly.

“O brother dear, I’ve dreamed a dream. I fear it will bring sorrow for I dreamt that you’ve
been spilling blood on the Dowie Dens O’ Yarrow.”

“O sister dear, I’ll read you dream. I know it will bring sorrow for your lover John lies dead
and gone; a bloody corpse on Yarrow.”

Her hair it was three quarters long. The colour it was yellow.
And she’s wrapped it round his middle so small and has borne him home to Yarrow.

“O daughter dear, dry up your tears and weep no more in sorrow for I’ll wed ye tae
one of higher degree than the ploughman lad from Yarrow.”

“O father dear, you‘ve seven sons. Ye may wed them all tomorrow.
But a finer lad there’ll never be than my ploughman lad from Yarrow.”

Little Drummer – Traditional Irish

One fine summer's mornin' both gallant and gay, twenty-four ladies went out on the quay. 
And a regiment of soldiers that did pass them by. The drummer of one of them soon caught his eye. 

He went to his comrade and to him did say, "Twenty-four ladies I saw yesterday.
O and one of them ladies she has my heart won and if she denies me I'm surely undone. 

Well go to this lady and tell her your mind. Tell her she's wounded your poor heart inside. 
Yes and tell her she's wounded your poor heart full sair and if she denies you what can you do mair? 

So early next morning this young man arose. Dressed himself up in the fine suit of clothes. 
With a watch in his pocket and cane in his hand, saluted the ladies as he walked down the strand. 

He went up to her and he said, "Pardon me. Pardon me lady for being so free.
But me fine honoured lady, you have me heart won and if you deny me I'm surely undone."

"Be off little drummer!  Now what do you mean? For I'm the lord's daughter of Ballycasteen. 
Yes and I'm the lord's daughter that's honoured you see. Be off little drummer! You're makin' too free.” 

Well he put on his hat and he bade her farewell, saying "I'll send me soul down to heaven or hell. 
For with this long pistol that hangs by me side, I'll put an end to me own dreary life."

"Ah come back little drummer and don't take it ill for I do not want to be guilty of sin, 
To be guilty of innocent blood for to spill.  Come back little drummer.  I'm here at your will.

"Now we'll hire a car and to Banshire we'll go. There we'll be married in spite of our foes. 
For what can they say when it's all said and done but I fell in love with the roll of your drum."

The Haughs of Cromdale – Traditional Scottish

As I came in from Achindoon, just a wee bit frae the toon, Tae the Highlands I was boun tae
view the haughs of Cromdale.I met a man in tartan trews and spiered at him what was the news?
Quo' he, "The Highland army rues that e'er they came to Cromdale.

"We were in bed, sir, every man, when the English host upon us came;
A bloody battle then began upon the haughs of Cromdale.
The English horse they were so rude. They bathed their hooves in Hieland blood.
But our brave clans so boldly stood upon the haughs of Cromdale.

"But, alas! We could no longer stay and from the hills we came away.
Sair we did lament the day that e’er we came to Cromdale."
Thus the great Montrose did say: "Hieland men show me the way an’ I will o'er the hills
this day, and I’ll view the haughs of Cromdale."

"Alas, my lord, you're not so strong. You scarcely have two thousand men and there's
twenty-thousand on the plain stand rank and file with Cromdale."
Thus the great Montrose did say, “Hieland men show me the way an’ I will o'er the hills
this day, and I’ll view the haughs of Cromdale."

They were at dinner, every man, when the great Montrose upon them came;
A second battle then began upon the haughs of Cromdale.
The Grant, Mackenzie and MacKay, soon Montrose they did espy and they fought
most valiantly upon the haughs of Cromdale.

The MacDonalds they returned again; The Camerons did their standard join;
MacIntosh played a bloody game upon the haughs of Cromdale.
The MacGregors fought like lions bold; MacPhersons, nane could them control;
MacLauchlins fought like loyal souls upon the haughs of Cromdale.

MacLeans, MacDougals, and MacNeils, so boldly as they took the field, made their
enemies to yield upon the haughs of Cromdale.
The Gordons boldly did advance; The Frasers fought with sword and lance;
The Grahams they made the heads to dance upon the haughs of Cromdale.

The loyal Stewarts, wi’ Montrose boldly set upon their foes. Laid them low with Highland blows;
They laid them low on Cromdale.
Of twenty-thousand Cromwell's men, five hundred fled to Aberdeen.  The rest of them lie on the plain.
They’re on the haughs of Cromdale!

Lord Yester – Traditional Scottish

Oh my love has gone to Flodden grey to dance at Branxholm Lea
And ere the night turns into day, he will dance no more with me.
Maybe he’s gone to Israel with freedom’s lance to sell.
Or maybe he has gone to Bethlehem to find the golden bell.

Oh my love may come another day for golden hours are few
And like broken dreams that melt away before the dawn is new.
Maybe he’s gone to Byzantine along the lonely trail.
Or maybe he has gone to Palestine for to find the Holy Grail.

Oh my love may find the golden fleece or wear the martyr’s gown.
For honour bides by him wha’ faught beneath the cross and crown.
Maybe he’s gone with James and John to fish by Galilee.
Or maybe he has gone with the Fisherman to find his Calvary.

My Johnnie Was A Shoemaker  - Traditional Irish

My Johnnie was a shoemaker and dearly he loved me. My Johnnie was a shoemaker and now he’s gone to sea.
With pitch and tar to soil his hands and to sail across the sea, the stormy sea.

His jacket was a deep sky blue and curly was his hair. His jacket was a deep sky blue. It was I do declare!
For to reef the topsail up against the mast and to sail across the sea, the stormy sea.

One day he’ll be a captain bold with a brave and gallant crew.  One day he’ll be a captain bold with a sword and a spyglass too.
And when he has his gallant captain’s sword he’ll come home and marry me. He’ll marry me from far across the stormy sea.

The Great Silkie – Traditional Scottish

In Norway there lives a maid. "By'e loo my baby", she begins.
"Little know I my child's father, or if it's land or sea he's living in.”

Then there arose at her bed's foot, ane grumly guest, I'm sure it was he
Sayin, "Here am I, thy child's father, although that I'm not comely.

"I am a man upon the land and I’m a silkie in the sea.
And when I am in my own country my dwelling is in Shule Skerry.

Then he has taken a purse of gold and he has put it on her knee,
Sayin', "Give to me my little wee son and take thee up thy nurse's fee.

"And it shall come to pass on a summer's day when the sun shines not on ev'ry stone,
That I shall take my little wee son and teach him for to swim in the foam.

"And you will marry a gunner good and a proud good gunner I'm sure he'll be,
And he'll go out on a May morning and he will shoot both my young son and me."

And lo, she did marry a gunner good and a proud good gunner I'm sure it was he,
And the very first shot that he did shoot he killed both the son and the Great Silkie.

If I Were A Blackbird – Traditional Irish

If I were a blackbird, I’d whistle and I’d sing and I’d follow the ship that my love he sails in.
And in the top rigging I’d there build my nest and I’d pillow my head on his lily-white breast.

He promised to take me to Donnybrook Fair to buy me red ribbons to tie up my hair.
And when I do see him, I’ll crown him with joy and I’ll give all my love to my sailor boy.

If I were a scholar, a letter I would write. In line after line I would call him sweetheart.
And then at the end to him I would say that he’ll be my true love till my dying day.

My parents, they slight me, they drive me from my home. Let them do what they like, love, let them do what they will.
While there’s breath in my body, l this I can say: that you’ll be my true love till my dying day.

I know not the reason why women love men and I know not the reason why men do love them.
For a man’s been my ruin. He’s been my downfall and he’s caused me to sleep under slimy cold walls.

Daddy be Gay – Traditional Irish 

There was an old man who lived under the hill. If he ain’t moved away he’s livin’ there still, 

One day the devil came down to his plough, said, “One of your family I’ll take with me now” 

It’s not your son or your daughter I crave but your old naggin’ wife, I’ll carry her away, 

“Take her away, with all of my heart” and I hope that the two of you never will part!” 

The devil he hoisted her up on his back and off to hell with her he did pack.

He set her down at the fork in the road he said, “Old woman, you’re a heck of a load!”

He carried her down to the gates of hell, said, “Rake up the coals, and roast her well!” 

But a poor little devil peeked over the wall, said, “Take her away or she’ll murder us all!” 

So the devil he hoisted her up on his back and back home with her again he did pack.

The old woman came whistlin’ over the hill, “The devil won’t have me. I wonder who will?”

There is an advantage we have over men we can go down to hell, and come back again!
Daddy be gay if ye can be.

Farewell to Tarwathie – Traditional Scottish

Farewell to Tarwathie. Adieu Mormond Hill. And the dear land of Crimond I bid ye farewell. 
I'm bound out for Greenland and ready to sail in hopes to find riches in hunting the whale.

Adieu to my comrades for while we must part. And likewise the dear lass that fair won my heart. 
The cold ice of Greenland my love will not chill and the longer our absence, more loving we'll feel.

Our ship is well rigged and she's ready to sail. Our crew they are anxious to follow the whale
Where the icebergs do float and the stormy winds blow and the land and the ocean are covered with snow.

O the cold coast of Greenland is barren and bare.  No seed time or harvest is ever known there. 
The birds here sing sweetly on mountain and dale but there is not a birdie to sing to the whale.

There’s no habitation for a man to live there and the king of that country is the fierce Greenland bear. 
And there'll be no temptation to tarry long there with our ship bumper full we will homeward repair.

Rattlin’ Roarin’ Willie – Burns / Traditional Scottish

O rattlin’, roarin’ Willie O he held tae the fair for tae sell his fiddle and buy some other ware,
But partin’ with his fiddle a salt tear blin’t his e’e. Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie you’re welcome home tae me.

O, Willie come sell your fiddle, O sell your fiddle sae fine. Willie come sell your fiddle and buy a pint o’ wine.
“If I should sell my fiddle the world would think I was mad for many a rantin’ day my fiddle and I hae had.”

As I came by Crochallan, I cannily keekit ben, rattlin’, roarin’ Willie was sitting at yon boord’en’.
Sittin’ at yon boord-en’ amang guid company. Rattlin’ roarin’ Willie ye’re welcome home tae me.

The Blacksmith – Traditional English

A blacksmith courted me ninth months and better. He fairly won my heart. He wrote me a letter.
With his hammer in his hand, he looked so clever. And if I were with my love I would live forever.

Oh where is my love gone with his cheeks like roses. He’s gone across the sea gathering primroses. 
I’m afraid the shining sun might scorch and burn his beauty. And if I were with my love I would do my duty.

Strange news has come to town, Strange news is carried. Strange news flies up and down that my love, he is married.
Though I wish them both much joy, though they don’t hear me. And if were with my love I would do my duty.

Oh what did you promise me when you lay beside me? You said you marry me and not deny me.
If I said I’d marry you t’was only for to try you so bring your witness love and I’ll not deny you.

Oh witness have I none save God almighty and may he reward you well for the slighting of me. 
Her lips grew pale and wan.  It made her poor heart tremble for to think she’d loved but one and he proved deceitful.

Island Spinning Song / Band o’ Shearers – Traditional Scottish

Hull-a-muckle do, Horo va hee, Heero va hinda, Horo va hinda Hull-a-muckle-do,
Horo va hee, O dick-o-deck-o-dandy.

When will someone come to me? Will he come by land or sea?
Will he my own true love be? Oh tell me truly wheel-O.

Wheel o’ fate what is’t you say? This year, next, or ne’er a day?
When will a wooer come my way? Oh tell me truly wheel-O.

Be he dark or be he fair, shy or bold or debonair, ribbons braw will deck my
hair tae meet and greet my true love.

Bonny laddie will ye nae gang shear with me the whole day long?
And love will cheer us as we gang to join yon band o’ shearers.

Summer days and heather bells are ringing through the silent hills.
There’s yellow corn in yonder fields and autumn brings the shearing.

If the weather it be hot, I’ll cast my cravat and my coat and shear with you among
the lot when we go to the shearing.

If the weather it be dry, they’ll say there’s love ‘tween you and I.
They’ll say there’s love ‘tween you and I when we go to the shearing.

And when the harvest it be done we’ll have some ranting, roaring fun.
We’ll have some ranting, roaring fun when we go to the shearing.

Song of the Seals – Traditional Scottish

A sea maid sings on yonder reef, the spell-bound seals draw near.
A lilt that lures beyond belief, mortals, enchanted, hear...

The wandering ploughman halts his plough. The maid her milking stays.
And sheep on hillside, bird on bough pause and listen in amaze.

Was it a dream? Are all asleep? Or did she cease her strain? For the seals with a splash,
dive into the deep and the world goes on again. Yet lingers the refrain...

A SONG OF LEWIS
Jean A. (Murray) Clarke

From the island of Lewis a voice calls to me, in tones both gentle and strong.
I hear it whisper, 'Return here and see. You will know this is where you belong.
'You must sing of your kinfolk, their stories of old, of the lochs, the peat creels and sands;
Of the Gaelic they speak with a soft lilting voice that’s been carried to far distant lands.'

So I’ll sing of the island that stirs me; of the Lews and all that it means.
I will sing with a heart that whispers to me, 'Return once again and see.'

I will sing of the fishing, the gulls and the nets, of the men in small boats on the sea,
Where the size of the waves doesn’t matter at all, for it’s there where the men have to be.
In the evening they watch both the weather and sky; in the morning they sail in from the bay.
With holds full of herring and hearts full of prayer, they tie up their boats to the quay.

I will tell of the villages small and so dear where you’re offered a scone and hot tea.
Such a wonderful feeling warms the strangers heart, saying, 'This is where I’m meant to be.'
But nobody here stays a stranger for long on this island that calls out to me.
The welcome is warm as the peat fire at night and as sure as the tides of the sea.

So I’ll sing of the heather, the crofts and the glens, of the mountains, the moors and the streams,
Of the spinners and weavers toiling over the loom. In the cloth go their hopes and their dreams.
So this song is for all of those wandering souls, who have left the fair island to roam,
For no matter how far or how long they’ve been gone, they will always call Lewis, 'my home'.

FROM WILD MOUNTAIN THYME

Maid on the Shore – Traditional English

There was a young maiden who lived all alone.  She lived all alone on the shore-O
There was nothing she could find to comfort her mind but to roam all alone on the shore.

T'was of the young captain who sailed the salt sea. Let the wind blow high blow low-O
'I will die, I will die' the young captain did cry. 'If I don't have that maid on the shore!

'Well I have lots of silver, I have lots of gold. I have lots of costly ware-O.
I'll divide, I'll divide with my jolly ships crew, If they row me that maid on the shore. 

With much persuasion they got her aboard. Let the wind blow high blow low-O
They replaced her away in his cabin below. 'Here's adieu to all sorrow and care. 

They replaced her away in his cabin below. Let the wind blow high, blow low-O
She's so pretty and neat she's so sweet and complete she sung captain and sailors to sleep. 

Then she robbed him of silver she robbed him of gold. She robbed him of costly ware-O.
Then she took his broad sword instead of an oar and paddled her way to the shore. 

'Well me men must be crazy, me men must be mad. Me men must be deep in despair-O for
to let you away from my cabin so gay, And to paddle your way to the shore. 

 'Well your men is not crazy, your men is not mad. Your men is not deep in despair-O.
I deluded your sailors as well as yourself. I'm a maiden again on the shore.

Well there is young maiden who lives all alone. She lives all alone on the shore-O.
There is nothing she can find to comfort her mind but to roam all alone on the shore.

John Anderson – Burns / Traditional Scottish 

John Anderson, my jo, John when we were first aquent Your locks were like the raven,
your bonny brow was brentBut now you’re growin’ old, John, your locks are like the snaw.
But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, we climbed the hills together, And mony a happy day,
John, we spent wi’ ain anither.But we must totter down, John, and hand in hand we’ll go to
sleep together at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.

Ye Banks and Braes – Burns / Traditional Scottish

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie doon, how can ye bloom sa'e fresh and fair?
How can ye chant ye little bird while I sa'e weary fu' o' care.
Thou'd break my heart thou warbling bird that wantons through the flowry thorn.
Thou minds me o' departed love, departed never to return. 

Oft ha'e I roved by bonnie doon ta'e see the rose and woodbine twine.
And ilka bird sang o' it's love and fondly sa'e did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I put a rose fu' sweet upon it's thorny tree.
But my fause lover stole my rose and a' he left the thorn wi' me.

Roses of Prince Charlie – The Corries

Come now gather now, here where the flowers grow. Bright is the blossom as the snow on the ben. 
Hear now freedoms call we'll make a solemn vow down by the roses of Prince Charlie. 

Fight again at Banochburn your battleaxe to wield. Fight with your grandsires on Floddens bloody field. 
Fight at Culloden your bonnie Prince to shield. Fight by the roses of Prince Charlie.

Spirits are a-banished in far and distant lands. Carved out the new world with sweat blood and hand. 
They come now in glory and on the silver sand, they fight by the roses of Prince Charlie. 

Tak' your strength frae the green fields and blankets peat and coal.  Ships frae the Clyde have a nation in their hold. 
The water of life some men need to make 'em bold.  It's black gold and fishes frae the sea, man.

Plooman Laddies – Traditional Scottish

Doon yonder den there’s a plooman lad and some summer’s day he will be my ain.
And sing laddie-o and sing laddie-aye. The plooman laddies are a’ the go.

I love his eyes and I love his skin. I love the verra cairt he hurls in.
And sing laddie-o and sing laddie-aye. The plooman laddies are a’ the go.

Doon yonder den I could have got a merchant but a’ his stuff wisna worth a groat.
And sing laddie-o and sing laddie-aye. The plooman laddies are a’ the go.

Doon yonder den I could have got a miller, but the smell o’ dust widda deen me ill.
And sing laddie-o and sing laddie-aye. The plooman laddies are a’ the go.

It’s ilka time I gyang tae the stack, I hear his whip gi’ anither crack.
And sing laddie-o and sing laddie-aye. The plooman laddies are a’ the go.

I see him comin’ frae yonder toon, wi’ a’ his ribbons hangin’ roon an’ roon.
And sing laddie-o and sing laddie-aye. The plooman laddies are a’ the go.

An noo gotten her plooman lad. As bare as ever he left the ploo.
And sing laddie-o and sing laddie-aye. The plooman laddies are a’ the go.

Ca’ The Yowes – Burns / Traditional Scottish

Ca' the yowes, tae the knowes. Ca' them where the heather grows.
Ca' them where the burnie rowes, my bonnie dearie. 

Hark the mavis ev'nin' sang, soundin' clouden's wood's amang.
Then a fouldin' let us gang, my bonnie dearie. 

We'll gae down by clouden's side through the hazels spreading wide, o'er the waves that
sweetly glide tae the moon sae clearly. 

Fair and lovely as thou art, thou has stol'n my very heart. I shall die but canna part, my bonnie dearie.

She’s Like The Swallow – Traditional Newfoundland

She's like the swallow that flies so high. She's like the river that never runs dry.
She's like the sunshine on the lea shore. I love my love and love is no more. 

T'was out in the garden this fair maid did go a-picking the beautiful primrose.
The more she plucked the more she pulled until she got her apron full. 

She climbed on yonder hill above, to give a rose unto her love.
She gave him one she gave him three. She gave her love in company. 

But as they sat on yonder hill, his heart grew cold, and colder still.
He has two hearts instead of one. She says, 'Young man what have you done?' 

For when I wore my apron low, my love would follow through wind and snow.
But now my apron is to my chin. My love passes by and won't call in. 

'How foolish, foolish you must be, To think I love no one but thee.
The world's not made for one alone. I take my joy in ev'ryone.' 

She took her roses and made a bed, a stony pillow for her head.
She laid her down no word did say. Just let her roses fade away. 

She's like the swallow that flies so high. She's like the river that never runs dry.
She's like the sunshine on the lea shore. I love my love and love is no more.

Ye Jacobites – Burns / Traditional Scottish

Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear. Ye Jacobites by name, your fauts I maun proclaim.
Your doctrines I maun blame ye shall hear.

What is right and what is wrong by the law by the law? What is right and what is wrong?
A short sword and a long, A weak arm and a strong for tae draw.

What makes heroic, strife famed afar, famed afar? What makes heroic, strife, to whet the
assassin’s knife, or hunt a parents life wi' bloody. 

So leave your schemes alone in the state, in the state.
So leave your schemes alone, enjoy the rising sun and leave the man alone to his fate.

Loch Lomond – Traditional Scottish

By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes, where the sun shines bright on Loch Lomond,
Where me and my true love were ever wont to gae on the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond

Oh ye’ll tak the high road and I’ll tak the low road and I’ll be in Scotland afore ye.
But me and my true love will never meet again on the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.

‘Twas there that we parted in yon shady glen on the steep, steep sides of Ben Lomond,
Where in purple hue, the hieland hills we view and the moon comin’ out in the gloamin’.

The wee birdies sing and the wildflowers spring and in sunshine, the waters are gleamin’
But the broken heart, it kens nae second spring tho’ the waefu may cease with their greetin’.

Oh ye’ll tak the high road and I’ll tak the low road and I’ll be in Scotland afore ye.
But me and my true love will never meet again on the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.

Broom O’ the Cowdenknowes – Traditional Scottish

How blythe was I at morn to see my swain come o'er the hill.
He leap'd the burn and flew to me I met him with good will. 

O the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom. The broom o' the cowdenknowes.
I wish I were with my ain dear swain wi' is pipes and wi' my ewes.

I neither wanted ewe or lamb while his flock near me lay.
He gathered in my sheep at night and cheered me a' the day.

He tuned his pipes and played sae sweet. The birds sat listening by.
E'en the cattle stood and gazed, charmed with his melody.

While thus we spent our time by turns, betwixt our flocks and play.
I envied not the fairest dame though ne'er sae rich and gay. 

Hard fate that I should banished be.
Gang heavily and mourn because I lov'd the kindest swain that ever yet was born.

He did oblige me every hour. Could I but faithful be?
He stole my heart could I refuse what e'er he asked of me.

My doggie and my little kit, that held my wee sop whey, my plaidie brooch
and crooked stick may now lie useless by.

Adieu ye Cowdenknowes adieu. Farewell a' pleasures there.
Ye gods, restore me to my swain, is a' I crave or care.

Hey Ca’ Thro’ – Burns / Traditional Scottish

Up wi' the carls o' Dysart and the lads o' Buckhaven, and the kimmers o’ Largo and the lasses o' Leven!
Hey ca' thro, ca' thro' for we ha' mickle ado. 

We ha' tells to tell and we ha'e songs to sing and we ha'e pennies to spend and we ha'e pints tae buy.
Hey ca' thro, ca' thro' for we ha' mickle ado. 

We'll have o'or days and them that come behind, let them do the like and spend the gear they win!
Hey ca' thro, ca' thro' for we ha' mickle ado.

Turn Ye To Me – Traditional Highland / Scottish

The stars are shining cheerily, cheerily, Horo Mhairi dhu, turn ye to me.
The sea mew is moaning drearily, drearily, Horo Mhairi dhu, turn ye to me.

Cold is the storm wind that ruffles his breast but soft are the downy plumes lining his nest.
Cold blows the storm there. Soft falls the snow there. Horo Mhairi dhu, turn ye to me.

The waves are dancing merrily, merrily, Horo Mhairi dhu, turn ye to me.
The sea birds are wailing wearily, wearily. Horo Mhairi dhu, turn ye to me.

Hushed be thy moaning loan bird of the sea. Thy home on the rocks is a shelter to thee.
Thy house the angry wave, mine but the lonely grave. Horo Mhairi dhu, turn ye to me.

Wild Mountain Thyme – Traditional Celtic

Oh the summer time is comin', and the leaves are sweetly blooming, and the wild mountain thyme
o'er the valley is perfuming. Will ye go lassie, go?

And we'll all go together to pluck wild mountain thyme all around the blooming heather.
Will ye go lassie, go?

I will build my love a bower near yon pure crystal fountain and on it I will pile all the flowers of the mountain.
Will ye go, lassie go? 

If my true love I should lose I would ne'er find another here the wild mountain thyme
grows around the blooming heather. Will ye go lassie, go?

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