THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR,

BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND THE EARL

OF MAR.

66

"O CAM ye here the fight to shun,
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man?
Or were ye at the Sherra-muir,

And did the battle see, man?"
I saw the battle sair and tough,
And reeking red ran many a sheugh;
My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds,
O' clans frae woods in tartan duds,
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.

The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades,
To meet them were na slaw, man;
They rush'd, and push'd, and bluid outgush'd,
And monie a bouk did fa' man;

The great Argyle led on his files,

I wat they glanced twenty miles;

They hack'd and hash'd, while broadswords clash'd
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd,
Till fey men died awa, man.

But had you seen the Phillibegs,
And skyrin tartan trews, man,

When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs,

And covenant true blues, man;

In lines extended lang and large,
When bayonets oppos'd the targe,

And thousands hasten'd to the charge,
Wi' Highland wrath, they frae the sheath
Drew blades o' death, till out o' breath,
They fled like frighted doos, man.

"O how, deil, Tam, can that be true? The chase gaed frae the north, man; I saw, myself, they did pursue

The horsemen back to Forth, man: And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, They took the brig wi' a' their might, And straught to Stirling wing'd their flight; But, cursed lot! the gates were shut, And monie a huntit poor red-cuat, For fear amaist did warf, man.'

My sister Kate cam up the gate,
Wi' crowdie unto me, man;
She swore she saw some rebels run
Frae Perth unto Dundee, man: •
Their left-hand gen'ral had nae skill,
The Angus lads had nae good will
That day their neebors' bluid to spill;
For fear by foes that they should lose
Their cogs o' brose: all crying woes,
And so it goes, you see, man.

They've lost some gallant gentlemen,
Amang the Highland clans, man:
I fear my Lord Panmure is slain,
Or fall'n in whiggish hands, man:
Now wad ye sing this double fight,
Some fell for wrang, and some for right
But monie bade the world guid-night

Then ye may tell, how pell and mell,
By red claymores, and muskets' knell,
Wi' dying yell, the tories fell,
And whigs to hell did flee, man.

CONTENTMENT.

TUNE-"Lamps o' Pudding."

CONTENTED wi' little, and cantie wi' mair,
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care,
I gie them a skelp, as they're creeping alang,
Wi' a cog o' guid.swats, and an auld Scottish sang

I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought;

But man is a sodger, and life is a faught:

My mirth and guid humor are coin in my pouch,
And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa',

A night o' good fellowship sowthers it a':
When at the blithe end o' our journey at last,
Wha the devil ever thinks o' the road he has past?

Blind chance, let her snapper stoyte on her way, Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae: Come ease, or come travail; come pleasure or pain; My warst ward is--" Welcome, and welcome again!

THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS

APRIL, 1795.

TUNE-Push about the Jorum.*

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!

Fall de rall, &c.

O let us not, like snarling tykes,
In wrangling be divided;
Till, slap! come in an unco loun,
And wi' a rung decide it.
Be Britain still to Britain true,
Amang oursels united;

For never, but by British hands,
Maun British wrangs be righted.
Fall de rall, &c.

The kettle o' the kirk and state,
Perhaps a claut may fail in't;

A high hill at the source of the Nith.

A well-known mountain at the mouth of the Solway

But deil a foreign tinkler loun

Shall ever ca' a nail in't.

Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought
And wha wad dare to spoil it?
By heav'n! the sacreligious dog
Shall fuel be to boil it!

Fall de rall, &c.

'The wretch that wad a tyrant own,

And the wretch, his true-born brother,
Who would set the mob aboon the throne,
May they be d-n'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.

Fall de rall, &c.

CALEDONIA.

TUNE "Humours of Glen."

THEIR groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom.

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers,
A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.