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Traditional Celtic Music, Scottish Songs & Border Ballads
Scots' musician, songwriter, & balladeer.
Hazel Whyte
Scots' Music
Laird O' Drum
A simple brief
thought on Scottish
Independance.

Were the outdated
union not of some very
high value to England and
the English, why would
they fight so to try to
keep it?

There are only so many
slices to a pie, for one to
have more, another must
have less.

Lastly - to those Scottish
"Loyalists" - to whom are
you loyal?
Scots royalty died in the
1700's so it can be no
Scots crown - And
certainly not it appears to
those who came before,
that bled for Scotland
and her freedom !  
In the words
of Burns, as he
wrote from the heart.

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie.

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour;
See approach proud Edward's power,
Chains and slaverie.

Wha would be a traitor-knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a Slave?
Let him turn and flie:

Wha for Scotland's king and law,
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa',
Let him follow me.

By Oppression's woes and pains!
By your Sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!

Lay the proud Usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!
Let us Do - or Die!!!

Choose your destiny.
The Laird o' Drum has a-huntin' gane
All in the mornin' early
And he has spied a weel-faur'd maid
A-shearin' her faither's barley

My bonnie maid, my weel-faur'd maid
It's will ye gang wi' me, O
And will ye gang and be Lady o' the Drum
And leave your shearin' a-be, O

I couldnae gang wi' you, kind sir
Nor leave my shearin' a-be, O
For I'm ower low tae be Lady o' the Drum
And your miss I scorn tae be, O

My faither he's a shepherd man
Keeps sheep on yonder hill, O
And ye be gang and speir at him
I'm entirely at his will, O

Drum has tae her faither gane
Keepin' sheep on yonder hill, O
I'm come tae marry your ae dochter
Gin ye'll gie your guid will, O

My dochter can neither read nor write
Nor once she bred at the school, O
But she can work baith oot and in
For I've learned the girlie mysel', O

She'll wark in your barn, aye and at your mill
And brew your malt and your ale, O
And saddle your steed in time o' need
And draw aff your boots hersel', O

Noo I'll learn the lassie tae read and write
And pit her tae the school, O
And she'll never need tae saddle my steed
Nor draw aff my boots hersel', O

But wha will bake my bridal breid
And wha will brew my ale, O
And wha will welcome my lowly bride
That's mair than I can tell, O

Ah but four and twenty gentle knights
Gae'd in at the yett o' Drum, O
And there's never a one has lifted his hat
When the Lady o' the Drum cam' in, O

It's up and spake his brither John
Says, Ye've done us meikle wrang, O
Ye've marriet a wife o' low degree
She's a mock tae all oor kin, O

It's Peggy Coutts is a bonnie bride
And Drum is big and gossie (?)
But ye mecht hae chosen a higher mat'
Than just a shepherd's lassie

It's up and spake the Laird o' Drum
Says, I've done ye nae wrang, O
I've marriet a wife tae wark and win
And ye've marriet ane tae spend, O

Noo, the first time that I took me a wife
She was far abune my degree, O
And I dursnae gang intae the room whaur she was
But my hand below my knee, O

It's twice he kissed her cherry cheek
And thrice her cherry chin, O
And twenty times her comely mou'
And ye're welcome, my Lady Drum, O

And when had eaten and drunken weel
And they were bound for bed, O
The Laird o' Drum and his lady fair
In ae bed they were laid, O

Gin ye had been o' high renown
As ye're o' low degree, O
We mecht hae gae'd doon tae the yett o' Drum
Amang guid companie, O

And o' a' yon four and twenty knights
That gae'd in at the yett o' Drum, O
There ne'er was a one wouldnae lifted his hat
When the Lady o' the Drum cam' in, O

I tell't ye weel ere we were wed
Ye was far abune my degree, O
But noo we're marriet, in ae bed laid
I'm just as guid as ye, O

And when you are dead and I am dead
And baith in ae grave laid, O
Ere seven years are at an end
Weel no' ken ye your dust frae mine, O
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