O, WILLIE brew'd a peck o' maut,
And Rob and Allan cam to see;
Three blither hearts, that lee-lang night,
Ye wad na find in Christendie.
We are na fou, we're na that fou,
But just a drappie in our e'e;
The cock may craw, the day may daw,
And ay we'll taste the barley bree.
Here are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys I trow are we;
And monie a night we've merry been,
And monie mae we hope to be!
We are, &c.
It is the moon, I ken her horn,
That's blinkin in the lift sae hie;
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
But by my sooth she'll wait a wee!
We are, &c.
Wha first shall rise to gang awa'
A cuckold, coward loun is he!'
Wha last beside his chair shall fa',
He is the king amang us three!
We are, &c.
GANE is the day and mirk's the night,
But we'll ne'er stray for foute o' light,
For ale and brandy's stars and moon,
And bluid-red wine's the rising sun.
Then, guidwife, count the lawin, the lawin, the lawin, Then, guidwife, count the lawin, and bring a coggie mair
There's wealth and ease for gentlemen,
And semple folk maun fecht and fen';
But here we're a' in ae accord,
For ilka man that's 'drunk's a lord.
Then guidwife, &c.
My coggie is a haly pool,
That heals the wounds o' care and dool;
And pleasure is a wanton trout,
An' ye drink it a' ye'll find him out,
Then guidwife, &c.
Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a' that;
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Our toil's obscure, and a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.
What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin gray, and a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that;
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show and 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, and stares, and a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for ' that:
For a' that, and a' trat,
His riband, star, and a' that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might
Guid faith he mauna fa' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Their dignities and a' that,
The pith o' sense and pride o' worth,
Are higher ranks 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,
May bear the gree, and a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
Its coming yet, for a' that,
That man to man the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.
Tune-" Lumps o' Fudding."
CONTENTED wi' little, and cantie wi' mair,
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care,
I gie them a skelp, as they're creeping alang,
WI' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang.
I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought;
But man is a sodger, and life is a faught:
My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch,
And my Freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch.
A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa',
A night o' good fellowship sowthers it a':
When at the blithe end o' our journey at last,
Wha the devil ever thinks o' the road he has past?
Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way,
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae:
Come ease, or come travail; come pleasure or pain;
My warst ward is" Welcome, and welcome again!"
CALEDONIA
Tune-"Humours of Glen."
THEIR groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,
Where bright beaming summers exalt the perfume,
Far dearer to me yon lowe glen o' green breckan,
WI' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom.
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen!
For there lightly tripping amang the wild flowers,
A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.
Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys,
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave:
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace,
What are they? The haunt of the tyrant and slave:
The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains,
The brave Caledonian views with disdain:
He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,
Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean.
THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR,
Between the Duke of Argyle and the Earl of Mar.
O CAN ye here the fight to shun,
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man?
Or were ye at the Sherra-muir,
And did the battle see, man?"
I saw the battle sair and tough,
And reeking-red ran monie a sheugh,
My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds,
O' clans frae woods in tartan duds,
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.
The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades,
To meet them were na slaw, man;
They rush'd and push'd, and bluid outgush'd,
And monie a bonk did fa', man:
The great Argyle led on his files,
I wat they glanced twenty miles:
They hack'd and hash'd, while broad-swords clash'd,
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd,
Till fey-men died awa, man.
But had you seen the Philibegs,
And skyrin tartan trews, man,
When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs,
And covenant true blues, man;
In lines extended lang and large,
When bayonets oppos'd the targe,
And thousands hasten'd to the charge,
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath
Drew blades o' death, till out o' breath,
They fled like frighted doos, man.
"O how deil, Tam, can that be true?
The chase gaed frae the north, man;
I saw myself, they did pursue
The horsemen back to Forth, man;
And at Dumblane, in my ain sight,
They took the brig wi' a' their might,
And straught to Sterling wing'd their flight;
But, cursed lot! the gates were shut,
And monie a huntit poor red-coat,
For fear amaist did swaft, man."
My sister Kate cam up the gate,
Wi' crowdie unto me, man;
She swore she saw some rebels run
Frae Perth unto Dundee, man:
Their left-hand general had nae skill,
The Angus lads had nae good will
That day their neebors' bluid to spill;
For fear by foes that they should lose
Their cogs o' brose: all crying woes,
And so it goes, you see, men.
They've lost some gallant gentlemen,
Amang the Highland clans, man;
I fear my lord Panmure is slain,
Or fallen in whiggish hands, man:
Now wad ye sing this double fight,
Some fell for wrang and some for right;
But monie bade the world guid-night;
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell,
By red claymores, and muskets' knell,
Wi' dying yell, the tories fell,
And whigs to hell did flee, man.
THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS.
APRIL, 1795.
Tune-Push about the Jorum."
DOES haughty Gaul invasion threat?
Then let the loons beware, Sir,
There's wooden walls upon our seas,
And volunteers on shore, Sir.
|