“O will ye gae wi’ me,” he says,
“Or will ye be my honey? 
Or will ye be my wedded wife? 
For I love you best of any.” 
“I winna gae wi’ you,” she says,
“Nor will I be your honey,
Nor will I be your wedded wife;
You love me for my money.”

* * * * *

But he set her on a coal-black steed,
Himsel lap on behind her,
An’ he’s awa to the Highland hills,
Whare her frien’s they canna find her.

* * * * *

“Rob Roy was my father ca’d,
Macgregor was his name, ladie;
He led a band o’ heroes bauld,
An’ I am here the same, ladie. 
Be content, be content,
Be content to stay, ladie,
For thou art my wedded wife
Until thy dying day, ladie.

“He was a hedge unto his frien’s,
A heckle to his foes, ladie,
Every one that durst him wrang,
He took him by the nose, ladie. 
I’m as bold, I’m as bold,
I’m as bold, an more, ladie;
He that daurs dispute my word,
Shall feel my guid claymore, ladie.”

Ballad:  The Battle Of Killie-Crankie

(Child, vol. vii.  Early Edition.)

Clavers and his Highlandmen
Came down upo’ the raw, man,
Who being stout, gave mony a clout;
The lads began to claw then. 
With sword and terge into their hand,
Wi which they were nae slaw, man,
Wi mony a fearful heavy sigh,
The lads began to claw then.

O’er bush, o’er bank, o’er ditch, o’er stark,
She flang amang them a’, man;
The butter-box got many knocks,
Their riggings paid for a’ then. 
They got their paiks, wi sudden straiks,
Which to their grief they saw, man: 
Wi clinkum, clankum o’er their crowns,
The lads began to fa’ then.

Hur skipt about, hur leapt about,
And flang amang them a’, man;
The English blades got broken beads,
Their crowns were cleav’d in twa then. 
The durk and door made their last hour,
And prov’d their final fa’, man;
They thought the devil had been there,
That play’d them sic a paw then.

The Solemn League and Covenant
Came whigging up the hills, man;
Thought Highland trews durst not refuse
For to subscribe their bills then. 
In Willie’s name, they thought nag ane
Durst stop their course at a’, man,
But hur-nane-sell, wi mony a knock,
Cry’d, “Furich—­Whigs awa’,” man.

Sir Evan Du, and his men true,
Came linking up the brink, man;
The Hogan Dutch they feared such,
They bred a horrid stink then. 
The true Maclean and his fierce men
Came in amang them a’, man;
Nane durst withstand his heavy hand. 
All fled and ran awa’ then.

Oh’ on a ri, Oh’ on a ri,
Why should she lose King Shames, man? 
Oh’ rig in di, Oh’ rig in di,
She shall break a’ her banes then;
With furichinish, an’ stay a while,
And speak a word or twa, man,
She’s gi’ a straike, out o’er the neck,
Before ye win awa’ then.