The Bonnets o' Bonnie Dundee

To the Lords o' Convention 't was Claver'se who spoke,

'Ere the king's crown shall fall, there are crowns to be broke;

So let each cavalier who loves honor and me

Come follow the bonnets o' Bonnie Dundee!

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can!

Come saddle your horses, and call out your men;

Come open the West Port and let me gang free,

And it's room for the bonnets o' Bonnie Dundee!

Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street,

The bells are rung backwards, the drums they are beat;

But the provost, donce man, said, "Just e'en let him be,

The Gude Town is well quit of that deil of Dundee!"

As he rode down the sanctified bends of the bow,

Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow;

But the young plants o' grace they looked couthie and slee,

Thinking, Luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonnie Dundee!

With sour-featured Whigs the Grass Market was cramm'd,

As if half the west had set tryst to be hanged;

There was spite in each look, there was fear in each ee,

As they watched for the bonnets o' Bonnie Dundee.

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears,

And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers;

But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway was free

At the toss o' the bonnet o' Bonnie Dundee.

He spurred to the foot o' the proud castle rock,

And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke:

"Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three,

For the love o' the bonnet o' Bonnie Dundee."

The Gordon demands of him which way he goes,

"Where'er shall direct me the shade o' Montrose!

Your grace in short space shall hear tidings of me,

Or that low lies the bonnet o' Bonnie Dundee.

"There are hills beyond Pentland and lands beyond Forth;

If there's lords in the lowland, there's chiefs in the north;

There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three

Will cry 'Hey!' for the bonnet o' Bonnie Dundee.

"There's brass on the target of barken'd bull-hide,

There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside;

The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free,

At a toss o' the bonnet o' Bonnie Dundee.

"Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks,

Ere I own a usurper I'll couch with the fox:

And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee,

Ye have no seen the last o' my Bonnet and me."

He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown.

The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on. Till,

on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lea

Died away the wild war-notes o' Bonnie Dundee.

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,

Come saddle the horses, and call up the men;

Come open your gates, and let me gang free,

For it's up with the bonnets o' Bonnie Dundee.

—Sir Walter Scott.