HEAR, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots,

Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groats;

If there's a hole in 'a your coats,

CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS.

I rede you tent it:

A chield's amang you, taking notes,

And faith, he'll prent it!

If in your bounds ye chance to light
Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight,

O' stature short, but genius bright,

That's he, mark weel

And wow! he has an unco sleight

O' cauk and keel.

By some auld, howlet-haunted biggin',
Or kirk deserted by its riggin',

It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in
Some eldritch part,

Wi' deils, they say, Lord save's! colleaguin'
At some black art.

It's tauld he was a sodger bred,
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled;

But now he's quat the spurtle-blade,
And dog-skin wallet,

And ta'en the-Antiquarian trade,

I think they call it.

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets;
Rusty airn caps and ginglin' jackets,
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets
A towmont gude;

And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets,
Before the Flood.

Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg,

The cut of Adam's philibeg;

The knife that nicket Abel's craig

CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS.

He'll prove you fully,

It was a faulding jocteleg,

Or lan-kail gullie.

But wad ye see him in his glee,

For meikle glee and fun has he,

Then set him down, and twa or three

Guid fellows wi' him;

And port, O port! shine thou a wee,

And then ye'll see him.

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose!
Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose!
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose,

They sair misca' thee;

I'd take the rascal by the nose

ROBIN REDBREAST.

Our thrushes now are silent,

Our swallows flown away,

But Robin's here, in coat of brown,
And scarlet breast-knot gay.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,

O Robin dear!

Robin sings so sweetly

In the falling of the year.

Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down in hosts;
The trees are Indian Princes,

But soon they'll turn to ghosts;

The leathery pears and apples

Hang russet on the bough;

It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, "Twill soon be Winter now.

Robin, Robin Redbreast,

O Robin dear!

And what will this poor Robin do? For pinching days are near.