OLD GREYFRIARS
1
All of us from the western shires,
Fifteen hundred men,
They marched us into the Old Greyfriars,
About the stroke of ten:
Hungry and wounded and worn and weary,
We wist it was but for a night
That they marched us into the kirkyard eerie,
In the dusky evening light.
2
A bonny kirkyard is the Old Greyfriars,
When the wallflower blooms in June,
And scatters its scent with the fresh sweetbriar's
Under the glint of the moon:
And we ranged us on the green grass there,
Or under the ivy-tod,
And raised our psalm and offered our prayer
To Jacob's mighty God.
3
But long ere the dank November day,
When the earth was sodden with rain,
And the chill fog clung where the long grass lay
Rotting with damp amain,
Of all who came from the western shires,
The fifteen hundred men,
Had you reckoned us well in the Old Greyfriars,
Not three were there for ten.
4
There were some that died in the summer tide,
Rotting away like sheep;
There were some went mad with the visions they had,
Between awake and asleep;
And some were traitors to the faith,
And signed their hope away—
Better for them had they met their death
On Bothwell Brig that day.
5
O Bothwell Brig! that wert so big
With hope to us and more;
O Bothwell Brig! the westland whig
May well thy name deplore.
And ye who would guide the stormy tide,
Think well ere ye begin;
For ye scrupled away our lives that day,
Ere we the bridge could win.
6
It's oh for courage! and oh for sense!
And a Joab with the host!
That we may stand on our sure defence,
Ere yet the day be lost.
Here were we from the western shires,
Good fifteen hundred men;
And reckon us now in the Old Greyfriars,
There are not three for ten.
