If there’s lords in the South-land, there’s chiefs in the North,
And wild dunnie-wassels three thousand times three,
Will cry hoigh! for the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee?
‘Away to the hills, to the woods, to the rocks—
Ere I own an usurper I’ll couch with the fox;
So, tremble, false Whigs, though triumphant ye be,
For ye’ve not seen the last of my bonnet or me!’
He waved his proud arm and the trumpets were blown,
The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on,
Till by Ravelston craigs and on Clermiston-lea