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Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or Freeman fa',

Let him follow me!

By oppression's woes and pains !
By your sons in servile chains !
We will drain our dearest veins,

But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low !
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!

Let us do, or die !

MONTGOMERY’S PEGGY.

A FRAGMENT.

TUNE—“Galla Water." Altho'my bed were in yon muir

Amang the heather, in my plaidie, Yet happy, happy would I be,

Had I my dear Montgomery's Peggy.

When o’er the hill beat surly storms,

An' winter nights were dark and rainy, I'd seek some dell, an’ in my arms

I'd shelter dear Montgomery's Peggy.

For a that, an' a' that.

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Were I a baron proud an' high,

An' horse an' servants waiting ready,
Then a’’twad gi’e o’joy to me,

The sharin 't with Montgomery's Peggy.

FOR A' THAT, AN'A' THAT.

TUNE-"For a' that, an' a' that.” [“The following will be allowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme. I do not give you the song for your book, but merely by way of vive la bagatelle; for the piece is not really poetry.”--Burns to G. Thomson.)

Is there, for honest poverty,

That hangs his head, an' a' that?
The coward slave we pass him by,

We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an'a' that,

Our toils obscure, an'a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,

The man 's the gowd for a' that.

What tho'on hamely fare we dine,

Wear hoddin gray, an' a' that;
Gi’e fools their silks, an' knaves their wine,

A man 's a man for a' that;
For a' that, an'a' that,

Their tinsel show, an'a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,

Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye

see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that; Tho' hundreds worship at his word,

He's but a coof for a' that: For a' that, an' a' that,

His riband, star, an' a' that, The man of independent mind,

He looks an' laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak' a belted knight,

A marquis, duke, an' a' that; But an honest man 's aboon his might,

Gude faith he maunna fa' that. For a' that, an' a' that,

Their dignities, an' a' that, The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,

Are higher ranks than a' that.

Then let us pray

that come it may, As come it will for a' that, That sense an’ worth, o'er a' the earth,

May bear the gree, an' a' that. For a' that, an' a' that,

It's coming yet, for a' that, That man to man, the warld o’er,

Shall brothers be for a' that.

My Nannie, 0.

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MY NANNIE, O.

TUNE—“My Nannie, O.” ["I have often thought that no man can be a proper critic of love composition except he himself, in one or more instances, have been a warm votary of this passion. Whether ‘My Nannie, O' will stand the test I will not pretend to say, because it is my own; only I can say it was at the time genuine from the heart.”Burns's Commonplace Book.]

BEHIND yon hills where Lugar flows,

Mang moors an' mosses many, 0,
The wintry sun the day has clos'd,

An' I'll awa’ to Nannie, O.

The westlin wind blaws loud an' shrill:

The night's baith mirk an' rainy, 0;
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal,

An' owre the hills to Nannie, 0.

0:

My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young;
Nae artfu' wiles to win

ye,
May ill befa' the flattering tongue

That wad beguile my Nannie, O.

Her face is fair, her heart is true,

As spotless as she's bonnie, 0:
The op'ning gowan, wet wi' dew,

Nae purer is than Nannie, 0.

A country lad is my degree,

An' few there be that ken me, 0);

But what care I how few they be?

I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O.

My riches a's my penny-fee,

An' I maun guide it cannie, 0;
But warl's

gear

ne'er troubles me,
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, 0.

Our auld gudeman delights to view

His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, 0;
But I'm as blithe that hauds his pleugh,

An' has nae care but Nannie, O.

Come weel, come woe, I care na by,

I'll tak’ what Heav'n will sen' me, 0);
Nae ither care in life ha'e I,

But live, an' love my Nannie, O.

UP IN THE MORNING EARLY.

Tune-"Cold blows the wind."

(“The chorus of this song is old; the two stanzas are mine." —Burns.]

CHORUS.

Up in the morning 's no for me,

Up in the morning early;
When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw,

I'm sure it 's winter fairly.

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