The Rovin' Dies Hard

My name's John Mackenzie, I'm a master at arms,
I carry my sword and my shield on my shoulder,
I've fought every fight from the Don to the Danube,
none braver, none bolder, none better.
I've stood wi' Montrose and against him,
I've battled wi' Swedes and wi' Danes,
and I've carried the standard o' many's the army
through many's the bloody campaign,
but now as I sit in the firelight it seems
there's a distant horizon to the sword buckler's gleam,
till a pull at the wine brings an old soldier's dreams from afar,
- for the rovin' dies hard.

I'm Calum McLean, I'm a Trapper to trade,
and it's forty long years since I saw Tobermory.
Through Canada's forests I've carried my plaid
and its pine trees could tell you my story.
Now my wandering days they are over,
but I'm thankful to still be alive,
for many's the kinsman who died in the hulks
at the end o' the bold forty-five.
I've an Indian lass now, I'll never deceive her,
but there's nights when I'd up with my gun and I'd leave her
for the land where the bear and the fox and the beaver are lord,
- for the rovin' dies hard.

My name's Robert Johnson, I'm a man of the cloth
and I'll carry my bible as long as I'm breathing.
I've preached the Lord's Gospel from Shanghai to Glasgow
where e're he saw fit to make heathens.
But now the Kirk's calling me homewards,
it's the manse and the elders for me,
but the sins o' the Session'll no' be so far
from the sins of the South China Sea,
And perhaps it's the voice o' the Devil I've heard,
for it speaks of the clipper ships flying like birds
till a man's only comfort is Scripture and the word of the lord
- for the rovin' dies hard.

My name's Willie Campbell, I'm a ship's engineer
and I know every berth between Lisbon and Largo.
I've sweated more diesel in thirty-five years
than a big tanker takes for cargo.
O' the good times I've had plenty,
where the whisky and women were wild
and there's many's the wean wi' the red locks o' the Campbels
who's ne'er seen the coast of Argyll,
But now as the freighters unload on the quay
the sound of the engines is calling to me
and it sings me a song of the sun and the sea and the stars,
- for the rovin' dies hard.

I've tuned up my fiddle and I've rosined my bow
and I've sung o' the clans and the clear crystal fountans.
I can tell you the road and the miles from Dundee
to the back of Alaska's wild mountains,
And when all of my traveling is over
the next of the rovers will come,
and he'll take all the songs and he'll sing them again
to the beat of a different drum.
And if ever I'm asked why the Scots are beguiled,
I'll lift up my glass in a health and I'll smile
and I'll tell them that fortune dealt Scotland the wildest
of cards,
- for the rovin' dies hard.

		Brian McNeil