Yea a place with the fallen, the living shall claim,
We 'll entwine in one wreath every glorious name,
The Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and the Graham.
All the broadswords, &c.
Count the rocks of the Spey, count the groves of the Forth—
Count the stars in the clear cloudless heaven of the north;
Then go blazon their numbers, their names and their worth.
All the broadswords, &c.
The highest in splendour, the humblest in place,
Stand united in glory, as kindred in race;
For the private is brother in blood to his Grace.
Oh, the broadswords, &c.
Then sacred to each and to all let it be,
Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free,
Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee.
Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland!
And oh! the old Scottish broadswords.
CAPTAIN PATON'S LAMENT.[44]
Touch once more a sober measure,
And let punch and tears be shed,
For a prince of good old fellows,
That, alack-a-day! is dead;
For a prince of worthy fellows,
And a pretty man also,
That has left the Saltmarket,
In sorrow, grief, and woe.
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
His waistcoat, coat, and breeches
Were all cut off the same web,
Of a beautiful snuff-colour,
Of a modest genty drab;
The blue stripe in his stocking,
Round his neat slim leg did go,
And his ruffles of the cambric fine,
They were whiter than the snow.
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
His hair was curled in order,
At the rising of the sun,
In comely rows and buckles smart,
That about his ears did run;
And before there was a toupee,
That some inches up did grow,
And behind there was a long queue,
That did o'er his shoulders flow.
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
And whenever we forgather'd,
He took off his wee three-cockit;
And he proffer'd you his snuff-box,
Which he drew from his side-pocket;
And on Burdett or Bonaparte
He would make a remark or so,
And then along the plainstones
Like a provost he would go.
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!