Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? Then let the louns 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! We’ll ne’er permit a Foreign Foe On British ground to rally! O let us not, like snarling curs, In wrangling be divided, Till, slap! come in an unco loun, And wi’ a rung decide it! Be Britain still to Britain true, Amang ourselves united; For never but by British hands Maun British wrangs be righted! No! never but by British hands Shall British wrangs be righted! The Kettle o’ the Kirk and State, Perhaps a clout may fail in’t; But deil a foreign tinkler loun Shall ever ca’a nail in’t. Our father’s blude the Kettle bought, And wha wad dare to spoil it; By Heav’ns! the sacrilegious dog Shall fuel be to boil it! By Heav’ns! the sacrilegious dog Shall fuel be to boil it! The wretch that would a tyrant own, And the wretch, his true-born brother, Who would set the Mob aboon the Throne, May they be damn’d together! 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! But while we sing “God save the King,” We’ll ne’er forget The People!
Address To The Woodlark
Tune—“Loch Erroch Side.”
O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay, Nor quit for me the trembling spray, A hapless lover courts thy lay, Thy soothing, fond complaining. Again, again that tender part, That I may catch thy melting art; For surely that wad touch her heart Wha kills me wi’ disdaining. Say, was thy little mate unkind, And heard thee as the careless wind? Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join’d, Sic notes o’ woe could wauken! Thou tells o’ never-ending care; O’speechless grief, and dark despair: For pity’s sake, sweet bird, nae mair! Or my poor heart is broken.
Song.—On Chloris Being Ill
Tune—“Aye wauken O.”
Chorus—Long, long the night, Heavy comes the morrow While my soul’s delight Is on her bed of sorrow. Can I cease to care? Can I cease to languish, While my darling Fair Is on the couch of anguish? Long, long, &c. Ev’ry hope is fled, Ev’ry fear is terror, Slumber ev’n I dread, Ev’ry dream is horror. Long, long, &c. Hear me, Powers Divine! Oh, in pity, hear me! Take aught else of mine, But my Chloris spare me! Long, long, &c.