Child of Alba

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1. Sound the Pibroch (Agnes Maxwell MacLeod)
2. Battle o’ Harlaw (Traditional)
3. Donald McGillavry (Traditional)
4. Children of Alba (Ivan Drever)
5. Johnnie Armstrong (Traditional)
6. The Yew Tree (Brian McNeill)
7. Whaur the Gadie Rins (Traditional)
8. Mingulay Boat Song (Hugh S. Roberton)
9. Sweet Afton (Robert Burns)
10. Rovin’ Journeyman (Traditional)
11. Dark Lochnagar (Words and Lord Byron, Music by Sir Henry Bishop)
12. No Gods (Brian McNeill)

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Musicians

Wolf Loescher – Vocals, Guitar, Percussion
Alex Stewart – Highland Pipes, Small Pipes, Flute, Whistle
Beth Patterson – Bass
Rich Brotherton – Mandolin, Cittern
Kendall Rodgers – Accordion, Piano
Jeremy Greenhouse – Fiddle (2,5,9)
Gordon McLeod – Fiddle (2)
Abbie Palmer – Harp

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1. Sound the Pibroch

A “pibroch” (also spelled piobaireachd) is a form of Scottish bagpipe music consisting of a series of variations on a basic theme, usually martial in character, but sometimes used as a lament or dirge. The chorus is in Gaelic, and is pronounced “Ha Cheen Fo-Uhm” and translates to “it comes upon me” or “I have the wish.” I learned this song (and many others) from the famous Scottish duo The Corries (Roy Williamson and Ronnie Brown).

Sound the pibroch loud on high
Fae John O’Groats tae the Isle o’ Skye
Let ev’ry clan their slogan cry
Rise and follow Charlie

Chorus
Tha tighin fodham, fodham, fodham
Rise and follow Charlie!

See that small devoted band
By dark Loch Shiel, they’ve made their stan’
And bravely vowed wi’ heart and hand
Tae rise and follow Charlie

Fae ev’ry hill and ev’ry glen
Are gatherin’ fast the loyal men
They grasp their dirks and shout again
“Hurrah for Royal Charlie!”

On dark Culloden’s field of gore
Hark! they shout, “Claymore! Claymore!”
They bravely fight, what can they more?
And die for Royal Charlie

Now on the barren heath they lie
Their funeral dirge the eagles cry
And mountain breezes o’er them sigh
Wha’ fought and died for Charlie

No more we’ll see such deeds again
Deserted is each Highland glen
And lonely cairns lie o’er the men
Wha’ fought and died for Charlie!

Words and Music by Agnes Maxwell MacLeod
Public Domain

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2. The Battle o’ Harlaw

In 1411, Lord Donald of the Isles and his army marched across the north east of Scotland. Two miles northwest of Inverurie the Highlanders met a Lowland army to resolve competing claims to the Earldom of Ross. The battle was inconclusive, but the Highlanders withdrew…after only 17 verses! I learned this first from The Corries, but this version takes inspiration from Old Blind Dogs (another major influence for me).

As I cam in by Dunideer
And doun by Nether Haw
Thare war fifty thoosan Hieland men
Aw marchin tae Harlaw

Chorus
Wi a diddie aye-o and a fal and a doe
And a diddie aye-o aye-ey

As I gaed on and further on
And doun in by Balquhain
Oh, it’s thare I saw Sir James the Rose
And wi him John the Graeme

“It’s cam ye fae the Hielands, man
Cam ye aw the wey?
Saw ye Macdonald and his men
As thay cam in fae Skye?”

“It’s I wis near and near eneuch
That I thair number saw
Thare war fifty thoosan Hieland men
Aw marchin tae Harlaw.”

“Gin that be true,” says James the Rose
“Thay’ll no come muckle speed
We’ll cry upon wir merry men
And turn wir horse’s heid.”

“Oh na, oh na,” says John the Graeme
“This thing will niver be
For the gallant Graemes war niver beat
We’ll try fit we can dae.”

Weel, as I gaed on and further on
And doun in by Harlaw
Thay fell fou close on ilka side
Sic straiks ye niver saw

Thare fell fou close on ilka side
Sic straiks ye niver saw
And ilka sword gaed clash for clash
At the Battle o Harlaw

The Hieland men wi thair lang swords
Thay laid on us fou sair
And thay drave back wir merry men
Three acres breadth or mair

And Forbes tae his brither did say
“Oh, brither, can’t ye see
Thay’v beaten us back on ilka side
And we’ll be forced tae flee.”

“Oh na, na, my brither bold
This thing will niver be
Ye’ll tak yer guid sword in yer haund
Ye’ll come in wi me.”

Weel, it’s back tae back the brithers bold
Gaed in amangst the thrang
And thay drave back the Hieland men
Wi thair swords baith sharp and lang

And the firstan straik that Forbes struck
He gart Macdonald reel
And the neistan straik that Forbes struck
The brave Macdonald fell

And siccan a pitlarichie
O the likes ye niver saw
As wis amangst the Hieland men
Fan thay saw Macdonald faw

Some rade, some ran and some did gang
Thay war o smaw record
But Forbes and his merry men
He slew thaim on the road

O fifty thoosan Hieland men
But fifty-three gaed hame
And oot o aw the Lawland men
Fifty marched wi Graeme

Gin onybody spier at ye
O thaim that marched awa
Ye can tell thaim plain and very plain
Thay’re sleepin at Harlaw

Traditional (Scotland)
Public Domain

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3. Donald MacGillavry

The title character of this song is not an actual person, but more of an anthropomorphic personification of the Jacobites (similar to Uncle Sam). Inspired by the inimitable Andy M. Stewart and his band Silly Wizard.

Donald’s gane up the hill hard and hungry
Donald’s cam doon the hill wild and angry
Donald will clear the gouk’s nest cleverly
Here’s tae the King and tae Donald MacGillavry
Come like a weighbauk, Donald MacGillavry
Come like a weighbauk, Donald MacGillavry
Balance them fair, and balance them cleverly
Off wi’ the counterfeit, Donald MacGillavry

Donald’s run o’er the hill trailing his tether, man
As he were wud, or stang’d wi’ an ether, man
When he comes back, there’s some will look merrily
Here’s tae King James and tae Donald MacGillavry
Come like a weaver, Donald MacGillavry
Come like a weaver, Donald MacGillavry
Pack on your back, and elwand sae cleverly
Gie them full measure, my Donald MacGillavry

Donald has foughten wi’ rief and roguery
Donald has dinner’d wi’ banes and beggary
Better it were for Whigs and Whiggery
Meeting the devil than Donald MacGillavry
Come like a tailor, Donald MacGillavry
Come like a tailor, Donald MacGillavry
Push about, and in and out, thimble them cleverly
Here’s tae King James and tae Donald MacGillavry

Donald’s the callan that brooks nae tangleness
Whigging and prigging and a’newfangleness
They maun be gane: he winna be baukit, man
He maun hae justice, or faith he’ll tak it, man
Come like a cobbler, Donald MacGillavry
Come like a cobbler, Donald MacGillavry
Beat them, and bore them, and lingel them cleverly
Up wi’ King James and wi’ Donald MacGillavry

Donald was mumpit wi’ mirds and mockery
Donald was blinded wi’ blads o’ property
Arles ran high, but makings were naething, man
Lord, how Donald is flyting and fretting, man
Come like the devil, Donald MacGillavry
Come like the devil, Donald MacGillavry
Skelp them and scaud them that proved sae unbritherly
Up wi’ King James and wi’ Donald MacGillavry

gouk = cuckoo
weighbauk = a scale or balance
wud = crazy, mad
stang’d wi’ an ether = stung by an adder
elwand = measuring rod
rief = banditry
banes = a cause of great distress or annoyance
callan = fine fellow
baukit = balked
lingel = shoemaker’s thread
mumpit wi’ mirds = lulled with flattery
blads = large portions
arles = thrashing
flyting = scolding
skelp = chastise
scaud = scold

Traditional (Scotland)
Public Domain

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4. Children of Alba

I’ve waited over 30 years to record this song, after being introduced to it by Alex Schultejann and Jim Moir in my very first attempt at a folk band in Austin, TX. Both were fellow members of the Silver Thistle Pipes & Drums, along with my older brother Michael.

Hame fae the wars, hame is the soldier
Hame fae the trenches, the killin’, the shame
Now the auld warrior he looks back in anger
At the sufferin’, the dyin’, the bullets, and the flames

Chorus
Hame tae auld Alba, hame is the traveler
Hame tae her bosom that never grows cold
The soldier, the tinker, the auld music maker
The children of Alba that never grow old

Hame fae his sojourn, the tinker is weary
Tired of trampin’ the highways and a’
Crossin’ the border, can’t go nae further
Hame tae auld Alba where he’ll slip awa’

Hame fae his travels, the man and his music
The laughter that hides all the loneliness there
His songs and his ballads, his tunes and his stores
Are all locked awa’ tae be danced to nae mare

Words and Music by Ivan Drever
© Mechanical Copyright Protection Society Ltd

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5. Johnnie Armstrong

A fictionalized account of a real Robin Hood type of character. Border reivers raided on both sides of the Scottish / English border, regardless of the victims’ nationality. They would rustle livestock and often took protection money. Inspired by the version from Dave Gunning and J.P. Cormier.

Come all you border reivers and listen to my song
The story has been told before and I’ll not detain you long
It’s a tale of Johnnie Armstrong and the King who did betray
A man of trust and honesty, his cattle taken from the enemy
But they hung him from the gallows tree Johnnie Armstrong’s gone away

Some called him a reaver and there are those who say
That all down through Newcastle, blackmail to Johnnie paid
From the tower at Gilnockie to the shadowlands below
Rode the outlaw royalty with honor and integrity
But they hung him from the gallow tree Johnnie Armstrong’s gone away

A plan relayed with whispers to bring poor Johnnie down
A gathering at Carlon Rigg, with the northern crown
Then the message was delivered, John you must come today
The king said “Johnnie come to me, your safety i will guarantee”
But they hung him from the gallows tree Johnnie Armstrong’s gone away

Then with eight hundred riders, his men they did surround
But with only five and thirty, he lost the upper ground
No bargain then was offered, no bargain then was made
Johnnie offered white steeds twenty-three, gold, black, meal, and property
But they hung him from the gallows tree Johnnie Armstrong’s gone away

For a man to seek hot water beneath the cold of ice
It surely must be folly, so I’ll take my own advice
There is no grace or honor from a King of seventeen
You may take me now but you will see, my blood will be my own decree
If you hang us from the gallows tree Johnnie Armstrong’s gone away

Kings don’t need competition from broken men like you
The English Queen is nervous, so your reaving days are through
The sentence was delivered, with death he had to pay
The rope returned his liberty, from Earthly troubles set him free
And they hung him from the gallows tree Johnnie Armstrong’s gone away

Traditional (Scotland)
Public Domain

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6. The Yew Tree

With change happening so fast in the modern world, it provides a little bit of perspective to consider how many lives of men would be witnessed in the life of a single tree. Inspired by the original version by Battlefield Band on the iconic album “Anthem for the Common Man” from 1988.

A mile frae Pentcaitland, on the road tae the sea
Stands a yew tree a thousand years auld
And the auld women swear by the gray o’ their hair
That it knows what the future will hold
For the shadows o’ Scotland stand ‘round it
‘midst the kail, and the corn, and the kye
All the hopes and the fears o’ a thousand long years
Under the Lothian sky

Chorus
My bonnie yew tree
Tell me what did you see?

Did you look through the haze o’ the lang summer days
Tae the south and the far English border?
All the bonnets o’ steel on Flodden’s far field
Did they march by your side in good order
Did you ask them the price o’ their glory
When you heard the great slaughter begin?
For the dust o’ their bones would rise up from the stones
Tae bring tears tae the eyes o’ the wind

Did ye no’ think tae tell when John Knox himsel’
Preached under your branches sae black
Tae the poor common folk who’ would cast off the yoke
O’ the bishops and priests frae their backs?
But you knew the bargain he sold them
An freedom was only one part
For the price o’ their souls was a gospel sae cold
It would freeze up the joy in their hearts

Not once did you speak for the poor and the weak
When the moss-troopers lay in your shade
Tae hide frae the thunder and count out the plunder
And share all the spoils o’ the raid
But you saw the smiles o’ the gentry
An the laughter o’ lords at their gains
For when the poor hunt the poor across mountain and moor
The rich man can keep them in chains

I thought as I stood and laid hands on your wood
That it might be a kindness tae fell you
One kiss o’ the axe, and you’re freed frae the wracks
O’ the sad, bloody tales that men tell you
But a wee bird flew out frae your branches
And sang out as never before
And the words o’ the song were a thousand years long
And tae learn them’s a long thousand more

Words and Music by Brian McNeill
© Budde Music Inc.

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7. Whaur the Gadie Rins

A jaunty tune tells the sad story of a lass who was twice married but never a wife…both prospective husbands met untimely deaths (one by the sword, the other by drowning). The little Gadie Burn runs to the north and east of a range of hills in Aberdeenshire called Bennachie. Inspired by Old Blind Dogs.

Chorus
Gin I were whaur the Gadie rins, the Gadie rins, the Gadie rins
Gin I were whaur the Gadie rins, oot the back o’ Bennachie

I niver had but twa richt lads, twa richt lads, twa richt lads
I niver had but twa richt lads, that dearly courted me

An’ ane was killed at the Laurin fair, the Laurin fair, the Laurin fair
O’ ane was killed at the Laurin fair, the ither was droont in the Dee

An’ I gaed tae him the haunin’ fine, the haunin’ fine, the haunin’ fine
I gaed tae him the haunin’ fine, this mornin’ dressed tae be

Well he gaed tae me the linin fine, the linen fine, the linen fine
Gaed tae me the linen fine, big windin’ sheet it be

Gin I were whaur the Gadie rins, wi the bonny broom an’ the yellow whims
Gin I were whaur the Gadie rins, oot the back o’ Bennachie

Traditional (Scotland)
Public Domain

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8. Mingulay Boat Song

Mingulay is the second largest of the Bishop’s Isles in the Outer Hebrides. Learned from the recordings of The Corries (who I had the good fortune to see live when I was a wee lad in East Kilbride – a “new town” just south of Glasgow, known primary for its large number of roundabouts).

Chorus
Heel ya ho, boys, let her go, boys
Swing her head ‘round, now all together
Heel ya ho, boys, let her go, boys
Sailing homeward to Mingulay

What care we though white the Minch is
What care we for wind and weather
When we know that, every inch is
Bringing us homeward to Mingulay

Wives are waiting by the quayside
They’ve been waiting since break o’ day-oh
Swing her head ‘round and we’ll anchor
Ere the sun sets on Mingulay

When the wind is wild with shouting
And the waves mount ever higher
Anxious eyes turn ever seaward
To see us home, boys, to Mingulay

Words and Music by Hugh S. Roberton
Public Domain

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9. Sweet Afton

You couldn’t very well have an album of Scottish folksongs without including at least one by the Immortal Bard himsel’. The River Afton of New Cumnock gives its name to Glen Afton through which the river runs, which has connections with William Wallace, Robert the Bruce, and Mary Queen of Scots. Inspired by the wonderful version from American bluegrass band Nickel Creek.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes
Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro’ the glen
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills
Far mark’d with the courses of clear winding rills
There daily I wander as noon rises high
My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot in my eye

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow
There oft, as mild evening sweeps over the lea
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave
As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave

Words by Robert Burns, Music by J.E. Spilman
Public Domain

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10. Rovin’ Journeyman

The itinerant worker would be a primary source for news / gossip and entertainment, and was always popular with the lassies (if you can believe the bias of the singer). Another one fae The Corries!

I am a rovin’ journeyman, I roam frae toon tae toon
And wheneverI get a job of work I’m willing tae sit doon
Me kit’s all on me shoulder, and me graftin’ tool in hand
And around the country I will go a rovin’ journeyman
When I come tae Glasgow toon, the lassies jump for joy
Says one untae another, “Well, here comes a rovin’ boy.”
Some treat me tae a bottle, and the others tae a dram
And the toast goes round the table, “Health untae the journeyman”

I hadna been in Glasgow toon a week but barely 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
She 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 ye’ve never seen before?”
“Mother sweet, I do entreat, I love him all I can
And around the country I will go tae see my journeyman!”

Wi’ yer inten adie toorin adie linten adie tooral
Linten adie tooral linten addie ay
Pots and pans and helpin’ hands will see you through the day
Linten adie tooral ooral ooral adie ay
Gie a penny tae the journeyman tae help him on his way

Ye’ll need nae mair tae trudge on foot, ye’ll hae a horse and pair
My wealth with thee 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’ journey man
I am a rovin’ journeyman, I roam from toon tae toon
And whenever I get a job of work I’m willing tae sit down
Me kit’s all on me shoulder and me graftin’ tool in hand
And around the country I will go a rovin’ journeyman

Traditional (Scotland)
Public Domain

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11. Dark Lochnagar

Lord Byron (celebrated British poet of the Romantic Period) memorialized his childhood in the northeast highlands of Aberdeenshire. I learned this one from The Corries, and have never heard anybody else sing it.

Away ye grey landscapes, ye gardens o’ roses
In you let the minions of luxury rove
And restore me the rocks where the snowflake reposes
If still they are sacred to freedom and love
Brave Caledonia, dear are thy mountains
Round their white summits though elements war
Though cataracts roar ‘stead of smooth-flowing fountains
I sigh for the valley o’ dark Lochnagar

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wandered
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid
On chieftains departed my memory lingered
As daily I strayed through the pine-covered glade
I sought not my home till the day’s dying glory
Gave place to the rays o’ the bright polar star
My fancy was cheered by the bold martial story
As told by the sons o’ dark Lochnagar

Years have rolled on, Lochnagar, since I left you
Years must roll on ere I see you again
Though Nature of verdure and flowers bereft you
Yet still art thou dearer than Albion’s plain
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic
To one who has roved on the mountains afar
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic
The steep frowning glories o’ wild Lochnagar

Ill-starred now the brave, did no vision foreboding
Tell you that fate had forsaken our cause?
Yet were you destined to die at Culloden
Though victory crowned not your fall with applause
Yet were you happy in death’s earthly slumber
To sleep wi’ your clan in the caves of Braemar
The pibroch resounds to the piper’s loud number
Your deeds on the echoes of wild Lochnagar

Words and Lord Byron, Music by Sir Henry Bishop
Public Domain

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12. No Gods

A brilliant riposte to the whole Jacobite mythos. A “claymore” is a two-handed great sword, not often seen around the Unemployment Bureau (aka “The Broo”).

I was listening to the news the other day
Heard a fat politician who had the nerve to say
He was proud to be Scottish, by the way
With the glories of our past to remember
“Here’s tae us, wha’s like us”, listen to the cry
No surrender to the truth and here’s the reason why
The power and the glory’s just another bloody lie
They use to keep us all in line

Chorus
For there’s no gods and there’s precious few heroes
But there’s plenty on the dole in the land o the leal
And it’s time now to sweep the future clear
Of the lies of a past that we know was never real

So farewell to the heather and the glen
They cleared us off once and they’d do it all again
For they still prefer sheep to thinking men
Ah, but men who think like sheep are even better
There’s nothing much to choose between the old Laird and the new
They still don’t give a damn for the likes of me and you
Just mind you pay your rent to the factor when it’s due
And mind your bloody manners when you pay

And tell me will we never hear the end
Of puir bluidy Charlie at Culloden yet again?
Though he ran like a rabbit down the glen
Leavin better folk than him to be butchered
Or are you sitting in your Council house, dreaming of your clan?
Waiting for the Jacobites to come and free the land?
Try going down the broo with your claymore in your hand
And count all the Princes in the queue

So don’t talk to me of Scotland the Brave
For if we don’t fight soon there’ll be nothing left to save
Or would you rather stand and watch them dig your grave
While you wait for the Tartan Messiah?
He’ll lead us to the Promised Land with laughter in his eye
We’ll all live on the oil and the whisky by and by
Free heavy beer! Pie suppers in the sky!
Will we never have the sense to learn?

That there’s no gods and there’s precious few heroes
But there’s plenty on the dole in the land o’ the leal
And I’m damned sure that there’s plenty live in fear
Of the day we stand together with our shoulders at the wheel

Aye, there’s no gods

Words and Music by Brian McNeill
© Budde Music Inc.

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Thanks to…

Larry & Stephanie Dorman, Alison “Adventure Doc” Davidow, Kristie & Frank, the SCMA & NTIF, GMHG, Tony, Sylvia & Stephen Q, Scotty, all my Howlers, Kickstarter backers, Scooter, and all the artists who shared their talents.

Shout out to Potomac Leather, Wolfstone Kilts, Ken Hall Knives, Rob Randall, and Jay Ford for making me look good.

For Red. I sing my songs for you. |m|/ |m|