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Thi Rock o’ Dunaverty ©

Jim McRobert
Edinburgh, Scotland

Mac Donald swore a bludy deed bi thi army o’ Montrose
Naen wid rise tae ficht wae him, whin he raised thi Fiery Cross
An wae thi army thae burn’d, aboot thi lan’
Destroyin’ wae oot mercy, nae mettir whit thi clan
An’ whin thid sated awe thir lust in thi name o’ Royalist
Crush’d thi Covanantin’wird bi a knicht’d loyal fist
Whin Heelanirs hud left wi plundir kerts fir hames aboot thi north
MacDonald wae nine hunner men merch’d fir thi Antrim Coast

Montrose he wis sae cocky o’ that thir wis nae doot
But on thi field o’ Philliphaugh, his men wur pit aboot
An Leslie wae Argyle, wis keen tae mak thi chase
Efftir thi bold Mac Donald’s men thi set a fearsum pace

Aye thae chased thae men a hunnir mile, bi brack’n hill an’ heather
Sweat’d hard bi every yard, an suffir’d pain o’ lethir
Fir every step thi lan’ wis torch’d, weans wur murdir’d tae
Martyr’d folks upon thi cross awe alang thi way

Cannon dragg’d bi curse an’ sweat, inch tae inch sae dearly
Fir every yard thi struggl’d on, revenge thae seen sae clearly
Horse an’ horse, froth speckl’d seen, struggl’d every yard
Pikes an’ swords an’ muskits rattl’d, careless wae thir guard
Doon that spit o’ Kintyre lan’, thae’d chas’d thae bludid men
Wi Muasdale pass’d, as troops wur mass’d, a hunnir men bi ten

Pipirs’ blaw an’ drums beat slow, ready fir thi ficht
Fear thi sounds o’ battle-cry, thi rock is noo in sicht
Roon an’ roon thi seaside keep thi siege wus quickly set
Every man wae-in its wa-s wid feel thir wrath o’ debt
Hatr’d biled on thi beach as each man stood an’ wait’d
Tae breech thae wa-s bi cannon baws an’ see thir bludlust sat’d

Day bi day thi wait’d thar, its wa-s thi coodnae breech
Till thi damm’d a hiddin spring, noo thi siege wid leech
See thi flag o’ parley shown, pleadin’ fir thir cause
Beggin’, lyin’, cheatin’, clutchin’ at auld straws
Quartir, Quartir, wis thi cry, it fell upon deef ears
As Leslie’s men hack’d back an’ front, thir visjin it wis clear

Haud yir han fir yin wee bairn wis thi pleadin’ o’ a maid
An aff shi ran wi him in han’ whin did as shi wis bade
Awe aroon this ancient Rock is dress’d in blud-rid thrift
Marks thi spot o’ murdir done, wae gory deeds sae swift
Three hunnir men wur slaughtir’d, slaughtir’d tae a man
Blud it lay ankle deep, an frae thi Rock it ran
Quartir, quartir, wis thi cry, but naught a hint wis gae-in
Till heap on heap wae boedis deep, thi sea a sickly stain

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