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

Were the outdated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.
Oh Lord thou kenst me well
Though my name's MacPhee I try to be
As English as yersel'

Oh God who sends us all things - partridge, grouse, and
Send the aristocracy to dae some hunting here
My loyal Royal ancestors who got me this estate
To please their English masters forced the folk to emigrate

I'm a simple Highland lairdie, so hear my lairdie's prayer
And always on the Sabbath I'll be yours for evermair
The fishing here is sacred, there's peace within the glen
Since you helped us clear the Highlands of the
Sabbath-drinkin' men

The empty crofters shielings we've turned into pens
For sheep can aye be bought and sold, but men are - well:
just men
You'll ken this fine, great shepherd, for you would do the
Except your righteous English flock of double-barrelled

How holy is Balmoral, now all our hymns are sung
By our betters down in Crathie in the Anglo-Saxon tongue
And should the Gaels return, and I am forced to flee
Let me be down in London town, nearer, my God, to thee
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