Robert Burns: Poems

I do Confess Thou Art Sae Fair

Alteration of an Old Poem.

I Do confess thou art sae fair,

I was been o'er the lugs in luve,

Had I na found the slightest prayer

That lips could speak thy heart could muve.

I do confess thee sweet, but find

Thou art so thriftless o' thy sweets,

Thy favours are the silly wind

That kisses ilka thing it meets.

See yonder rosebud, rich in dew,

Amang its native briers sae coy;

How sune it tines its scent and hue,

When pu'd and worn a common toy.

Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide,

Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile;

And sune thou shalt be thrown aside,

Like ony common weed and vile.

Lines On Fergusson, The Poet

Ill-fated genius! Heaven-taught Fergusson!

What heart that feels and will not yield a tear,

To think Life's sun did set e'er well begun

To shed its influence on thy bright career.

O why should truest Worth and Genius pine

Beneath the iron grasp of Want and Woe,

While titled knaves and idiot—Greatness shine

In all the splendour Fortune can bestow?

The Weary Pund O' Tow

Chorus.—The weary pund, the weary pund,

The weary pund o' tow;

I think my wife will end her life,

Before she spin her tow.

I bought my wife a stane o' lint,

As gude as e'er did grow,

And a' that she has made o' that

Is ae puir pund o' tow.

The weary pund, &c.

There sat a bottle in a bole,

Beyont the ingle low;

And aye she took the tither souk,

To drouk the stourie tow.

The weary pund, &c.

Quoth I, For shame, ye dirty dame,

Gae spin your tap o' tow!

She took the rock, and wi' a knock,

She brak it o'er my pow.

The weary pund, &c.

At last her feet—I sang to see't!

Gaed foremost o'er the knowe,

And or I wad anither jad,

I'll wallop in a tow.

The weary pund, &c.

When She Cam' Ben She Bobbed

O when she cam' ben she bobbed fu' law,

O when she cam' ben she bobbed fu' law,

And when she cam' ben, she kiss'd Cockpen,

And syne denied she did it at a'.

And was na Cockpen right saucy witha'?

And was na Cockpen right saucy witha'?

In leaving the daughter of a lord,

And kissin' a collier lassie an' a'!

O never look down, my lassie, at a',

O never look down, my lassie, at a',

Thy lips are as sweet, and thy figure complete,

As the finest dame in castle or ha'.

Tho' thou has nae silk, and holland sae sma',

Tho' thou has nae silk, and holland sae sma',

Thy coat and thy sark are thy ain handiwark,

And lady Jean was never sae braw.

Scroggam, My Dearie

There was a wife wonn'd in Cockpen, Scroggam;

She brew'd gude ale for gentlemen;

Sing auld Cowl lay ye down by me,

Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum.

The gudewife's dochter fell in a fever, Scroggam;

The priest o' the parish he fell in anither;

Sing auld Cowl lay ye down by me,

Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum.

They laid the twa i' the bed thegither, Scroggam;

That the heat o' the tane might cool the tither;

Sing auld Cowl, lay ye down by me,

Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum.

My Collier Laddie

"Whare live ye, my bonie lass?

And tell me what they ca' ye;"

"My name," she says, "is mistress Jean,

And I follow the Collier laddie."

"My name, she says, &c.

"See you not yon hills and dales

The sun shines on sae brawlie;

They a' are mine, and they shall be thine,

Gin ye'll leave your Collier laddie.

"They a' are mine, &c.

"Ye shall gang in gay attire,

Weel buskit up sae gaudy;

And ane to wait on every hand,

Gin ye'll leave your Collier laddie."

"And ane to wait, &c.

"Tho' ye had a' the sun shines on,

And the earth conceals sae lowly,

I wad turn my back on you and it a',

And embrace my Collier laddie.

"I wad turn my back, &c.

"I can win my five pennies in a day,

An' spen't at night fu' brawlie:

And make my bed in the collier's neuk,

And lie down wi' my Collier laddie.

"And make my bed, &c.

"Love for love is the bargain for me,

Tho' the wee cot-house should haud me;

and the warld before me to win my bread,

And fair fa' my Collier laddie!"

"And the warld before me, &c.

Sic A Wife As Willie Had

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed,

The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie;

Willie was a wabster gude,

Could stown a clue wi' ony body:

He had a wife was dour and din,

O Tinkler Maidgie was her mither;

Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wad na gie a button for her!

She has an e'e, she has but ane,

The cat has twa the very colour;

Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,

A clapper tongue wad deave a miller:

A whiskin beard about her mou',

Her nose and chin they threaten ither;

Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wadna gie a button for her!

She's bow-hough'd, she's hein-shin'd,

Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter;

She's twisted right, she's twisted left,

To balance fair in ilka quarter:

She has a lump upon her breast,

The twin o' that upon her shouther;

Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wadna gie a button for her!

Auld baudrons by the ingle sits,

An' wi' her loof her face a-washin;

But Willie's wife is nae sae trig,

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion;

Her walie nieves like midden-creels,

Her face wad fyle the Logan Water;

Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wadna gie a button for her!

Lady Mary Ann

O lady Mary Ann looks o'er the Castle wa',

She saw three bonie boys playing at the ba',

The youngest he was the flower amang them a',

My bonie laddie's young, but he's growin' yet.

O father, O father, an ye think it fit,

We'll send him a year to the college yet,

We'll sew a green ribbon round about his hat,

And that will let them ken he's to marry yet.

Lady Mary Ann was a flower in the dew,

Sweet was its smell and bonie was its hue,

And the longer it blossom'd the sweeter it grew,

For the lily in the bud will be bonier yet.

Young Charlie Cochran was the sprout of an aik,

Bonie and bloomin' and straught was its make,

The sun took delight to shine for its sake,

And it will be the brag o' the forest yet.

The simmer is gane when the leaves they were green,

And the days are awa' that we hae seen,

But far better days I trust will come again;

For my bonie laddie's young, but he's growin' yet.

Kellyburn Braes

There lived a carl in Kellyburn Braes,

Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;

And he had a wife was the plague of his days,

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

Ae day as the carl gaed up the lang glen,

Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;

He met with the Devil, says, "How do you fen?"

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

I've got a bad wife, sir, that's a' my complaint,

Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;

"For, savin your presence, to her ye're a saint,"

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

It's neither your stot nor your staig I shall crave,

Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;

"But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have,"

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

"O welcome most kindly!" the blythe carl said,

Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;

"But if ye can match her ye're waur than ye're ca'd,"

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

The Devil has got the auld wife on his back,

Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;

And, like a poor pedlar, he's carried his pack,

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

He's carried her hame to his ain hallan door,

Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;

Syne bade her gae in, for a bitch, and a whore,

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his band,

Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme:

Turn out on her guard in the clap o' a hand,

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wud bear,

Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;

Whae'er she gat hands on cam near her nae mair,

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

A reekit wee deevil looks over the wa',

Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;

"O help, maister, help, or she'll ruin us a'!"

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

The Devil he swore by the edge o' his knife,

Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;

He pitied the man that was tied to a wife,

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

The Devil he swore by the kirk and the bell,

Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;

He was not in wedlock, thank Heav'n, but in hell,

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

Then Satan has travell'd again wi' his pack,

Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;

And to her auld husband he's carried her back,

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

I hae been a Devil the feck o' my life,

Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme;

"But ne'er was in hell till I met wi' a wife,"

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

The Slave's Lament

It was in sweet Senegal that my foes did me enthral,

For the lands of Virginia,—ginia, O:

Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more;

And alas! I am weary, weary O:

Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more;

And alas! I am weary, weary O.

All on that charming coast is no bitter snow and frost,

Like the lands of Virginia,—ginia, O:

There streams for ever flow, and there flowers for ever blow,

And alas! I am weary, weary O:

There streams for ever flow, and there flowers for ever blow,

And alas! I am weary, weary O:

The burden I must bear, while the cruel scourge I fear,

In the lands of Virginia,—ginia, O;

And I think on friends most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear,

And alas! I am weary, weary O:

And I think on friends most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear,

And alas! I am weary, weary O:

O Can Ye Labour Lea?

Chorus—O can ye labour lea, young man,

O can ye labour lea?

It fee nor bountith shall us twine

Gin ye can labour lea.

I fee'd a man at Michaelmas,

Wi' airle pennies three;

But a' the faut I had to him,

He could na labour lea,

O can ye labour lea, &c.

O clappin's gude in Febarwar,

An' kissin's sweet in May;

But my delight's the ploughman lad,

That weel can labour lea,

O can ye labour lea, &c.

O kissin is the key o' luve,

And clappin' is the lock;

An' makin' o's the best thing yet,

That e'er a young thing gat.

O can ye labour lea, &c.

The Deuks Dang O'er My Daddie

The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout,

The deuks dang o'er my daddie, O!

The fien-ma-care, quo' the feirrie auld wife,

He was but a paidlin' body, O!

He paidles out, and he paidles in,

rn' he paidles late and early, O!

This seven lang years I hae lien by his side,

An' he is but a fusionless carlie, O.

O haud your tongue, my feirrie auld wife,

O haud your tongue, now Nansie, O:

I've seen the day, and sae hae ye,

Ye wad na ben sae donsie, O.

I've seen the day ye butter'd my brose,

And cuddl'd me late and early, O;

But downa-do's come o'er me now,

And oh, I find it sairly, O!

The Deil's Awa Wi' The Exciseman

The deil cam fiddlin' thro' the town,

And danc'd awa wi' th' Exciseman,

And ilka wife cries, "Auld Mahoun,

I wish you luck o' the prize, man."

Chorus—The deil's awa, the deil's awa,

The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman,

He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa,

He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.

We'll mak our maut, and we'll brew our drink,

We'll laugh, sing, and rejoice, man,

And mony braw thanks to the meikle black deil,

That danc'd awa wi' th' Exciseman.

The deil's awa, &c.

There's threesome reels, there's foursome reels,

There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man,

But the ae best dance ere came to the land

Was—the deil's awa wi' the Exciseman.

The deil's awa, &c.

The Country Lass

In simmer, when the hay was mawn,

And corn wav'd green in ilka field,

While claver blooms white o'er the lea

And roses blaw in ilka beild!

Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel,

Says—"I'll be wed, come o't what will":

Out spake a dame in wrinkled eild;

"O' gude advisement comes nae ill.

"It's ye hae wooers mony ane,

And lassie, ye're but young ye ken;

Then wait a wee, and cannie wale

A routhie butt, a routhie ben;

There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen,

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre;

Take this frae me, my bonie hen,

It's plenty beets the luver's fire."

"For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen,

I dinna care a single flie;

He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye,

He has nae love to spare for me;

But blythe's the blink o' Robie's e'e,

And weel I wat he lo'es me dear:

Ae blink o' him I wad na gie

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear."

"O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught;

The canniest gate, the strife is sair;

But aye fu'—han't is fechtin' best,

A hungry care's an unco care:

But some will spend and some will spare,

An' wilfu' folk maun hae their will;

Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair,

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill."

"O gear will buy me rigs o' land,

And gear will buy me sheep and kye;

But the tender heart o' leesome love,

The gowd and siller canna buy;

We may be poor—Robie and I—

Light is the burden love lays on;

Content and love brings peace and joy—

What mair hae Queens upon a throne?"

Bessy And Her Spinnin' Wheel

O Leeze me on my spinnin' wheel,

And leeze me on my rock and reel;

Frae tap to tae that cleeds me bien,

And haps me biel and warm at e'en;

I'll set me down and sing and spin,

While laigh descends the simmer sun,

Blest wi' content, and milk and meal,

O leeze me on my spinnin' wheel.

On ilka hand the burnies trot,

And meet below my theekit cot;

The scented birk and hawthorn white,

Across the pool their arms unite,

Alike to screen the birdie's nest,

And little fishes' caller rest;

The sun blinks kindly in the beil',

Where blythe I turn my spinnin' wheel.

On lofty aiks the cushats wail,

And Echo cons the doolfu' tale;

The lintwhites in the hazel braes,

Delighted, rival ither's lays;

The craik amang the claver hay,

The pairtrick whirring o'er the ley,

The swallow jinkin' round my shiel,

Amuse me at my spinnin' wheel.

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy,

Aboon distress, below envy,

O wha wad leave this humble state,

For a' the pride of a' the great?

Amid their flairing, idle toys,

Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys,

Can they the peace and pleasure feel

Of Bessy at her spinnin' wheel?

Love For Love

Ithers seek they ken na what,

Features, carriage, and a' that;

Gie me love in her I court,

Love to love maks a' the sport.

Let love sparkle in her e'e;

Let her lo'e nae man but me;

That's the tocher-gude I prize,

There the luver's treasure lies.

Saw Ye Bonie Lesley

O saw ye bonie Lesley,

As she gaed o'er the Border?

She's gane, like Alexander,

To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her,

And love but her for ever;

For Nature made her what she is,

And never made anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,

Thy subjects, we before thee;

Thou art divine, fair Lesley,

The hearts o' men adore thee.

The deil he could na scaith thee,

Or aught that wad belang thee;

He'd look into thy bonie face,

And say—"I canna wrang thee!"

The Powers aboon will tent thee,

Misfortune sha'na steer thee;

Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely,

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

Return again, fair Lesley,

Return to Caledonie!

That we may brag we hae a lass

There's nane again sae bonie.

Fragment Of Song

No cold approach, no altered mien,

Just what would make suspicion start;

No pause the dire extremes between,

He made me blest—and broke my heart.

I'll Meet Thee On The Lea Rig

When o'er the hill the eastern star

Tells bughtin time is near, my jo,

And owsen frae the furrow'd field

Return sae dowf and weary O;

Down by the burn, where birken buds

Wi' dew are hangin clear, my jo,

I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind Dearie O.

At midnight hour, in mirkest glen,

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, O,

If thro' that glen I gaed to thee,

My ain kind Dearie O;

Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,

And I were ne'er sae weary O,

I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind Dearie O.

The hunter lo'es the morning sun;

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo;

At noon the fisher seeks the glen

Adown the burn to steer, my jo:

Gie me the hour o' gloamin' grey,

It maks my heart sae cheery O,

To meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind Dearie O.

My Wife's A Winsome Wee Thing

Air—"My Wife's a Wanton Wee Thing."

Chorus.—She is a winsome wee thing,

She is a handsome wee thing,

She is a lo'esome wee thing,

This dear wee wife o' mine.

I never saw a fairer,

I never lo'ed a dearer,

And neist my heart I'll wear her,

For fear my jewel tine,

She is a winsome, &c.

The warld's wrack we share o't;

The warstle and the care o't;

Wi' her I'll blythely bear it,

And think my lot divine.

She is a winsome, &c.

Highland Mary

Tune—"Katherine Ogie."

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery!

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie:

There Simmer first unfauld her robes,

And there the langest tarry;

For there I took the last Farewell

O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk,

How rich the hawthorn's blossom,

As underneath their fragrant shade,

I clasp'd her to my bosom!

The golden Hours on angel wings,

Flew o'er me and my Dearie;

For dear to me, as light and life,

Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,

Our parting was fu' tender;

And, pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder;

But oh! fell Death's untimely frost,

That nipt my Flower sae early!

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay

That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!

And clos'd for aye, the sparkling glance

That dwalt on me sae kindly!

And mouldering now in silent dust,

That heart that lo'ed me dearly!

But still within my bosom's core

Shall live my Highland Mary.

Auld Rob Morris

There's Auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,

He's the King o' gude fellows, and wale o' auld men;

He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,

And ae bonie lass, his dautie and mine.

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;

She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay;

As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,

And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

But oh! she's an Heiress, auld Robin's a laird,

And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;

A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,

The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;

The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane;

I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,

And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

O had she but been of a lower degree,

I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me!

O how past descriving had then been my bliss,

As now my distraction nae words can express.

The Rights Of Woman

An Occasional Address.

Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her benefit night, November 26, 1792.

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things,

The fate of Empires and the fall of Kings;

While quacks of State must each produce his plan,

And even children lisp the Rights of Man;

Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention,

The Rights of Woman merit some attention.

First, in the Sexes' intermix'd connection,

One sacred Right of Woman is, protection.—

The tender flower that lifts its head, elate,

Helpless, must fall before the blasts of Fate,

Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form,

Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm.

Our second Right—but needless here is caution,

To keep that right inviolate's the fashion;

Each man of sense has it so full before him,

He'd die before he'd wrong it—'tis decorum.—

There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days,

A time, when rough rude man had naughty ways,

Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot,

Nay even thus invade a Lady's quiet.

Now, thank our stars! those Gothic times are fled;

Now, well-bred men—and you are all well-bred—

Most justly think (and we are much the gainers)

Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.

For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest,

That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest;

Which even the Rights of Kings, in low prostration,

Most humbly own—'tis dear, dear admiration!

In that blest sphere alone we live and move;

There taste that life of life—immortal love.

Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs;

'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares,

When awful Beauty joins with all her charms—

Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms?

But truce with kings, and truce with constitutions,

With bloody armaments and revolutions;

Let Majesty your first attention summon,

Ah! ca ira! The Majesty Of Woman!

Epigram On Seeing Miss Fontenelle In A Favourite Character

Sweet naivete of feature,

Simple, wild, enchanting elf,

Not to thee, but thanks to Nature,

Thou art acting but thyself.

Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected,

Spurning Nature, torturing art;

Loves and Graces all rejected,

Then indeed thou'd'st act a part.

Extempore On Some Commemorations Of Thomson

Dost thou not rise, indignant shade,

And smile wi' spurning scorn,

When they wha wad hae starved thy life,

Thy senseless turf adorn?

Helpless, alane, thou clamb the brae,

Wi' meikle honest toil,

And claught th' unfading garland there—

Thy sair-worn, rightful spoil.

And wear it thou! and call aloud

This axiom undoubted—

Would thou hae Nobles' patronage?

First learn to live without it!

To whom hae much, more shall be given,

Is every Great man's faith;

But he, the helpless, needful wretch,

Shall lose the mite he hath.

Duncan Gray

Duncan Gray cam' here to woo,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

On blythe Yule-night when we were fou,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

Maggie coost her head fu' heigh,

Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,

Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan fleech'd and Duncan pray'd;

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't:

Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,

Grat his e'en baith blear't an' blin',

Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn;

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Time and Chance are but a tide,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

Slighted love is sair to bide,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't:

Shall I like a fool, quoth he,

For a haughty hizzie die?

She may gae to—France for me!

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

How it comes let doctors tell,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't;

Meg grew sick, as he grew hale,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Something in her bosom wrings,

For relief a sigh she brings:

And oh! her een they spak sic things!

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan was a lad o' grace,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't:

Maggie's was a piteous case,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't:

Duncan could na be her death,

Swelling Pity smoor'd his wrath;

Now they're crouse and canty baith,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Here's A Health To Them That's Awa

Here's a health to them that's awa,

Here's a health to them that's awa;

And wha winna wish gude luck to our cause,

May never gude luck be their fa'!

It's gude to be merry and wise,

It's gude to be honest and true;

It's gude to support Caledonia's cause,

And bide by the buff and the blue.

Here's a health to them that's awa,

Here's a health to them that's awa,

Here's a health to Charlie^1 the chief o' the clan,

Altho' that his band be but sma'!

May Liberty meet wi' success!

May Prudence protect her frae evil!

May tyrants and tyranny tine i' the mist,

And wander their way to the devil!

Here's a health to them that's awa,

Here's a health to them that's awa;

Here's a health to Tammie,^2 the Norlan' laddie,

That lives at the lug o' the law!

Here's freedom to them that wad read,

Here's freedom to them that wad write,

[Footnote 1: Charles James Fox.]

[Footnote 2: Hon. Thos. Erskine, afterwards Lord Erskine.]

There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be heard,

But they whom the truth would indite.

Here's a Health to them that's awa,

An' here's to them that's awa!

Here's to Maitland and Wycombe, let wha doesna like 'em

Be built in a hole in the wa';

Here's timmer that's red at the heart

Here's fruit that is sound at the core;

And may he be that wad turn the buff and blue coat

Be turn'd to the back o' the door.

Here's a health to them that's awa,

Here's a health to them that's awa;

Here's chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth gowd,

Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw;

Here's friends on baith sides o' the firth,

And friends on baith sides o' the Tweed;

And wha wad betray old Albion's right,

May they never eat of her bread!

A Tippling Ballad

On the Duke of Brunswick's Breaking up his Camp, and the defeat of the Austrians, by Dumourier, November 1792.

When Princes and Prelates,

And hot-headed zealots,

A'Europe had set in a low, a low,

The poor man lies down,

Nor envies a crown,

And comforts himself as he dow, as he dow,

And comforts himself as he dow.

The black-headed eagle,

As keen as a beagle,

He hunted o'er height and o'er howe,

In the braes o' Gemappe,

He fell in a trap,

E'en let him come out as he dow, dow, dow,

E'en let him come out as he dow.

But truce with commotions,

And new-fangled notions,

A bumper, I trust you'll allow;

Here's George our good king,

And Charlotte his queen,

And lang may they ring as they dow, dow, dow,

And lang may they ring as they dow.