THE
Highland Man's Lament,
For the Dea[th] of Donald Bayn, alias Mcevan Vanifranck, who was Execute in
the Grass M[a]rket of Edinburgh, on Wednesday the 9th Day of January 1723.
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TOnald Bayn her nane dear Shoy,
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Maks a' Folk sad save Robin Roy
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Who kend him sin he was a Boy,
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her nane sell Swons,
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To think he'd hangs like Gilderoy,
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by Laulan Louns.
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Ohon, ohon for Land of Refe,
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Sin Tonald's hang'd for common Theif,
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Not on kind Gallows at the Crief,
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indeef no fair,
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Pra Shentlemen her nane sels Cheif,
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did a hing there.
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Teel spread his Net out o're them a,
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That took stout Tonald's Life awa,
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And Troun them in the Wel of Spa
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or Peterhead,
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Shame fa the feckless Lauthian Law,
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for now he's dead.
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By great St. Patrick's Sauls he swears,
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While either Targe or Trous she wears,
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The Clans shall fall out by the Ears,
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without a Cure,
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For dinny think her nane sel fears,
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a Shirrif-muir.
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May Bess at Hame ne're pear te pairn,
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Hen lay the Egg, or Mage steal Yarn,
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Or Alaster lift Cows from Nairn,
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but the Monro's,
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By weight of her Claemore shall learn,
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to ken their Foes.
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And by te Panes of K. Mcduff,
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Te Frasers shall get sik a cuff,
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We'l bray them a' as sma as Snuff,
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bloody-battle,
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Syne her nane sell will gang and Truff,
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a' their Cattle.
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But Robin Roy, she fears ye will,
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Ne're smell Powder, but stand still,
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And see her pread Sword hack and kill,
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mony Hunder.
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Syne came scouring down the Hill,
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for the Plunder.
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Donald and her, for mony a Day,
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Eat Kebbecks, and drank Huskiebae;
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And syne took up te Trumps to play,
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Mcferson's Rant.
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Wee liv'd as blyth as the Lord Gray,
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or Laird of Grant.
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Thron Murray-Land, and Huntly Heth,
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We chas'd the Gypsies out of Breath,
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Put them, and Tinklers a' to Death,
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and spoil'd their Carcks:
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The Chapmen fand our Highland Wrath,
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we toom'd their Packs.
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Whan Mar her nane sells King did press,
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Men for to take in Imverness,
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We lifted the Excise and Cess,
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gae Swiss their Paiks.
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The Tutch, so frighted with our Dress,
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got hearty Straiks.
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For to meet him, it was nae Mows,
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He was the warst of Worrie-Cows,
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Rob Roys Heart fell in the Hows,
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when he saw him:
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They parted ay we' bloody Pows,
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he was so slim.
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Twenty Thousand Merks in Gold,
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Robin o're a Grecn Truff told
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To twa McGrigors that were bold,
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for to buy Cows.
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But she Trous Donald, did lay hold
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upon their Trows.
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For he fleg'd that McGrigor Crew,
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Fast frae Tonald's Claws they flew;
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Tonald and Alaster he slew,
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ne're Lochkater:
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Took a' their Gear, and them he threw,
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in a Water.
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Pe sure, her nane sell never saw,
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Te' Man tat valued less te Law,
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For he gae Folk, cald Coals to blaw,
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which gard them groan.
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And when he carried all away.
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cry'd Pockmohon.
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Te like of this did ne're befal us,
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Tonald as stout as William Wallace,
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Was guarded by, te Southland Fallows,
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her Heart will plead.
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For his pare Arse to grace the Gallows,
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and now he's tead.
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May her sell ne're trip Athol Hill,
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Nor never see the Sneizing Mill;
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Nor trink of Huskiebae a Gill,
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or wear te Durk;
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If the Monros she doe not kill,
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and Fight like Turk.
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Mccleods, Mctonalds and Mcpanes,
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And a te M's tat kend him anes,
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Hing toun te Head, and mak great Mains,
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we' Cronohs fair,
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I or Tonald's can Pelow te Stanes,
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we ill cou[l]d spare.
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Te Clans will make te firy fery,
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Frae Fokoburss to Inverary,
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And frae Glensheils doun to Glengary,
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for Tonald Bayn,
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I fear te Plots will a' miscarry,
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sin Tonald's gane.
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