1. Gallowa' Hills
2. Work o' the Weavers
3. A Man's a Man
4. Tae the Beggin'
5. The Green and the Blue
6. Pittenweem Jo
7. The Legacy/Morrison's Jig
8. Melville Castle
9. Darling Ailie
10. Rovin' Journeyman
11. Johnnie Cope

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Galloway is in the south-west of Scotland. The words to this song are by William Nicholson (1783-1849) and was originally called 'The Braes of Galloway". It has changed over the years, and this is one version of it.

I'll tak' my plaidie contented tae be,
A wee bittie kilted abune my knee,
An' I'll gie my pipes anither blaw,
An' I'll gang oot ower the hills tae Gallowa'.

     Oh the Gallowa' Hills are covered wi' broom
     Wi' heather bells in bonnie bloom,
     Aye wi' heather bells an' rivers a'
     An' we'll gang oot ower the hills tae Gallowa'.

Come on bonnie lassie will ye gang wi' me
And share yer life in a far country
Aye an' share yer life though doon fa's a'
An' we'll gang oot ower the hills tae Gallowa'

I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,
I'll sell my granny's spinning wheel,
Aye I'll sell the lot tho' doon fa's a'
An' we'll gang oot ower the hills tae Gallowa'

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This song was very popular in Forfarshire and other centres of the handloom weaving industry. The author was a Forfar weaver, David Shaw. He died in Forfar in 1856. 

We're all met thegither here tae sit and tae crack,
Wi' our glasses in oor hands an' oor work upon oor back
There's no a trade in a' the earth can either mend or mak'
We a' need the work o' the weavers.

     If it wasnae for the weavers what would we do
     We widnae hae clothes made o' woo
     We widnae hae a coat neither black nor blue
     If it wasnae for the work o' the weavers.

There's folks that's independent o' other people's work,
For women need nae barbers and dykers need nae clerks,
But none o' them can dae withoot a coat or a shirt,
We a' need the work o' the weavers.

Oor sodgers an' oor sailors we know that they are bauld
But if they didnae hae claes they couldnae fight for cauld,
The high an' low, the rich an' poor - abody young an' auld,
They a' need the work o' the weavers.

Noo weaving is a trade that can never, ever fail,
As long as we need claes to keep a body hale
So let us raise oor glasses wi' a bicker o' good ale
An' drink tae the health o' the weavers.

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Robert Burns, Scotland's bard, is known to have harboured republican feelings and frequently spoke in favour of the French and American Revolutions. He wrote this song in 1794. Society and the class-system in particular was for the first time ever perceived as something unfair and to be improved upon. 

Is there for honest poverty, 
That hings its heid an' a' that,
The coward slave we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that, 
Its toils obscure an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea stamp, 
The man's the gowd for a' that 

What tho' on hamely fare we dine, 
Wear hodden gray an' a' that?
Gie fools their silk an' knaves their wine, 
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their tinsel show an' a' that,
The honest man tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord,
Wha struts an' stares an' a' that, 
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their ribband star an' a' that,
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak' a belted knight,
A marquis, duke an' a' that,
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that.
The pith o' sense an ' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that)
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's comin' yet for a' that,
That man to man, the world o'er,
Shall brithers be for a' that.

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Of all the trades in Scotland, beggin' is the best.
For when a beggar's tired he can lay him doon and rest

     Tae the beggin' I will go, tae the beggin' I will go.

I've a pocket for me oatmeal, and another for me salt.
I've a pair of little crutches, you should see how I can halt.

There's patches on me dusty coat and another on me ee;
But when it comes to tuppenny ale, I can see as well as thee.

I can rest my head where'er I choose, and I don't pay no rent
I've got no noisy loons to mind, and I am right content.

I can rest when I am tired, and I heed no master's bell,
A man 'ud be daft to be a king, when beggars live so well.

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The Green and the Blue was written by Alan Reid, and the title reflects the colours of the two nations flags - the green of Ireland and the blue of Scotland. It talks about the people of Ireland who had to leave their homeland, many of whom sailed to Glasgow to make new lives for themselves. 

     Don't turn to look on the green hills of Antrim,
     Fermanagh's behind ye, it's time to move on.
     Look onward to Glasgow, and all your tomorrows
     The future lies there, and it's waiting for you,
     As the green crosses over and meets with the blue.

And what was the use when the wee ones were crying
The cries of the hungry, no sense to remain.
No prayers can recover a sister or brother,
So farewell to Fermanagh, the praying is done.

For this land that you leave has had too many martyrs,
Too many people who've perished in vain.
and too many ships slipping out of your harbours
With cargoes that never come homeward again.

And if the wings of the eagle could carry you over
to the land of the prairie, then surely you'd fly.
But an ocean so wide, and a far distant country,
So far from your homeland, that's no place to die.

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Written by John Watt. Pittenweem is a fishing village on the east coast of Fife. 

I'm goin' wi' a lassie fae Pittenweem,
She's every fisher laddie's dream.
She guts the herrin' doon by the quay,
And saves her kisses just for me.

Well, last July it come tae pass 
I met this bonnie fisher lass,
Wi' her e'en sae blue, and black was her hair.
I met her doon by the village fair.

     Oh, Pittenweem, Pittenweem,
     She's every fisher laddie's dream.
     She guts the herrin' doon by the quay,
     And saves her kisses just for me.

So I says tae her, "Can I see ye hame?"
She says, "Och fine, but I ken yer game.
But ne'er the less, ye're awfy kind.
In fact, a widnae really mind."

So I took her hame that Saterday nicht.
The moon was shinin' oh sae bricht.
And as we sat there on the grass,
I said, "Hey, Jo, will ye be ma lass?"

Well, she's ma lass noo, and weel I ken
She disnae gang wi' other men:
'Cause I was fast but they were slow, 
And that's how I won my Pittenweem Jo.

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Two popular Irish jigs. The first is a version of the Legacy by Vinny Kilduff. The second is a well known, popular jig.

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Willie's gone to Melville Castle, boots and spurs and a'
Tae bid the ladies a' fareweel afore he gaes awa'.
Willie's young and blithe and bonnie, loo'ed by ane and a',
What will a' the lassies dae when Willie gaes awa"?

The first he met was Lady Kate, she led him thru' the ha'
And wi' a sad and sorry heart she let the tears doon fa'.
Beside the fire stood Lady Grace, said ne'er a word at a'
She thought that she was sure o' him afore he ga'ed awa'.

Well, ben the hoose cam' Lady Bell, "Guid sakes, ye neednae craw.
Maybe the lad will fancy me, and disappoint ye's a'."
Then doon the stair cam' Lady Jean, the floo'er among them a', 
Saying, "Lassies, trust in providence, and ye'll get husbands a'."

When on his horse he raid awa', they gaithered at the door,
And when he raised his bonnet blue, they set up sic a roar.
Their sighs and tears brought Willie back he's kissed them ain and a',
Saying, "Lassies bide till I come hame, and then I'll wed ye's a'."

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Darling Ailie (or Eilidh) was written by Phil Cunningham. 

Many years ago when I was in my prime, 
I courted Bonnie Ailie around the harvest time.
I courted her sae weel, that she said she would be mine
And I won my Darling Ailie.

And as we were awalkin' all along the golden sand
She'd sweetly turn and she'd hold me by the hand.
When she looked into my eyes, how it made me feel so grand
To be with my Darling Ailie.

Down through the glen where the wild eagles fly,
Down to the place where my bonnie lassie lies, 
I brush away the tears as they flood into my eyes
As I think of my Darling Ailie.

My life is fading now with each falling grain of sand.
Soon I must go to a far and distant land.
I know that once I'm there I'll again hold the hand
Of my own dear Darling Ailie.

Down to the glen where the pines they grow tall,
There I'll lay down and await the master's call.
For all I want to do is to die after all,
And be with my darling Ailie.

I strode the heather on the side of the hill
Where I'd go walkin' with my Ailie McGill.
I loved her then and how I love her still, 
How I miss you, my Darling Ailie!

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I am a rovin' journeyman, I roam from town to town.
Whenever I get a job o' work I'm willing to sit down.
My kit's all on my shoulder and my graftin' tool in hand, 
Around the country I will go, a rovin' journeyman.
And when I come to Glasgo' toon the lassies jump for joy.
Says one unto the tother, "Well, here comes a rovin' boy."
Some treat me tae a bottle and the others tae a dram.
The toast goes round the table, "Health untae the journeyman." 

     Wi' a linten addie, tooral addie, linten addie aye. 
     Pots and pans and helping hands will see ye through the day.
     Linten addie, tooralooral, ooral addie aye,
     Gie a penny tae the journeyman tae help him on his way.

I hadnae been in Glasgo' toon a week but maybe three,
Before the provost's daughter went and fell in love wi' me.
She asked me for tae dine wi' her and took me by the hand,
Proudly told her mother that she loved the journeyman.
"Ach, away ye go, ye silly maid, I'll hear ye speak no more.
How can ye love a journeyman you've never seen before?"
"Mother, sweet, I do entreat, I love him all I can,
And around the country I will go to see my journeyman."

Ye'll need nae mair tae trudge on foot, ye'll hae a horse an' pair.
My wealth with ye and poverty, contented I will share.
So overflow the flowing bowl and drain it if ye can,
Toast the provost's daughter and the rovin' journeyman.
I am a rovin' journeyman, I roam from town to town,
Whenever I get a job o' work I'm willing to sit down.
My kit's all on my shoulder and my graftin' tool in hand,
Around the country I will go a rovin' journeyman.

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This song celebrates the Battle of Prestonpans (Sept 21, 1745) where General Cope of the Government force got his reputation for being the ultimate coward: he had fled in great haste after a surprise attack by the Jacobites, led by Bonnie Prince Charlie, and was the first to arrive safely at Berwick. It was said that 'he was the first general in Europe who had brought the first tidings of his own defeat.' The words are by Adam Skirving (1719-1803), a farmer from Haddingtonshire in Lothian.

Cope sent a challenge frae Dunbar, saying, "Chairlie meet me, gin ye dar',
I'll learn ye the art o' war if ye meet me in the mornin'."
Chairlie looked the letter upon, he drew his sword its scabbard from.
"Follow me, my merry men, and we'll meet Johnnie Cope in the mornin'."

     Hey, Johnnie Cope are ye waukin' yet, are a' yer drums a'beatin' yet?
     If ye were waukin' I would wait tae gang tae the coals in the mornin'.   

"Noo Johnnie be as good as yer word, and let us meet wi' fire and sword.
Dinna flee awa' like a frichted bird that's chased frae its nest in the mornin'.
When Johnnie Cope he heard a' this, he thocht tae himself it widnae be amiss
To saddle a horse in readiness to flee awa' in the mornin'.

C'mon now Johnnie get up and rin, the hieland bagpipes mak' a din.
It's better tae sleep wi' a hale skin, it'll be a bloody mornin'.
When Johnnie Cope to Dunbar came, they speired at him, "Where's a' yer men?"
"The de'il confound me, ah dinnae ken! I Left them a' this mornin'.

"Noo, Johnnie, troth, ye were sae blate tae leave yer men in sic a state,
And come wi' the news o' yer ain defeat sae early in the mornin'."
"In faith!" quo Johnnie, "I got sic flegs for their claymores and filabegs
If I see them again they'll brak' my legs, so I wish ye's a' Good Mornin'."

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