To-morrow is the glorious Twelfth, that comes but once a year.
From Cheapside unto Chelsea, they're envying me at home,
For I'm to shoot over the moors, Willie, as far as I can roam.
ON THE TWELFTH.
I.
I bade you wake me early, with my shaving-jug and brogues,
But Scotch and English servants are all a pack of rogues.
It's the only Twelfth of August in the Highlands I shall see,
Yet you snored on your truckle-bed, Willie, and never thought of me.
II.