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With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn; But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, Her darling amusement, the hounds and the

horn.

Long quiet she reign'd; till thitherward steers
A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand;
Repeated, successive, for many long years,
They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the
land:

Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry,
They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside;
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly,
The daring invaders they fled or they died.
The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north,
The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the
The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth [shore ;
To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore:
O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd,
No arts could appease them,no arms could repel;
But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd,

As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell. The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose, With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife; Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose,

And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life: The Anglian lion, the terror of France, {flood; Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance,

He learned to fear in his own native wood. Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free, Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : For brave Caledonia immortal must be;

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun:

BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR.

Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose,

181

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base; But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse; Then ergo, she'll match them, and match them always.

ON THE

BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, Between the Duke of Argyll and the Earl of Mar. TUNE-The Cameronian Rant.

'O, CAM ye here the fight the 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 mony 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 werena slaw, man;
They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd,
And many a bouk did fa', man :

And great Argyll led on his files,

I wat they glanced twenty miles :

[clash'd,

They hack'd and hash'd, while broad-swords

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.

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‹ O, how deil, Tam, can that be true? The chase gaed frae the north, man; I saw mysel, 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 Stirling wing'd their flight;
But, cursed lot! the gates were shut,
And mony a huntit, poor red-coat,
For fear amaist did swarf, 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 guid-will
That day their neebors' blood to spill;
For fear, by foes, that they should lose
Their o' brose-all crying woes,
cogs

And so it goes you see, man.

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 mony bade the world guid-night;

THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS.

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.

183

THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS.

TUNE-Push about the jorum.

April, 1795.

DOES haughty Gaul invasion threat?
Then let the loons beware, Sir,
There's wooden walls upon our seas,
And volunteers on shore, Sir.
The Nith shall run to Corsincon,
And Criffel sink in Solway,

Ere we permit a foreign foe
On British ground to rally!

Fall de rall, &c.

O, let us not like snarling tykes
In wrangling be divided ;
Till slap come in an unco loon

And wi' a rung

decide it.

Be Britain still to Britain true,
Amang oursels united;

For never but by British hands

Maun British wrangs be righted.
Fall de rall, &c.

The kettle o' the kirk and state,
Perhaps a claut may fail in't;
But deil a foreign tinkler loun
Shall ever ca' a nail in't.

184

O, WHA IS SHE THAT LO’es me. Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought,

And wha wad dare to spoil it; By heaven, the sacrilegious dog Shall fuel be to boil it.

Fall de rall, &c.

The wretch that wad a tyrant own,
And the wretch his true-born brother,
Who wad set the mob aboon the throne,
May they be damn'd together!

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Who will not sing, God save the King,'
Shall hang as high's the steeple ;
But while we sing, God save the King,'
We'll ne'er forget the People.

O, WHA IS SHE THAT LO'ES ME.
TUNE-Morag.

O, WHA is she that lo'es me,
And has my heart a-keeping?
O, sweet is she that lo'es me,
As dews o' simmer weeping,
In tears the rose-buds steeping.

CHORUS.

O, that's the lassie o' my heart,
My lassie ever dearer;

O, that's the queen o' womankind,
And ne'er a ane to peer her.

If thou shalt meet a lassie,

In grace and beauty charming,
That e'en thy chosen lassie,

Ere while thy breast sae warming,
Had ne'er sic powers alarming;

O, that's, &c.

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