And thousands hasten'd to the charge, "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-coat, For fear amaist did swarf, man.' My sister Kate cam up the gate, They've lost some gallant gentlemen, Now wad ye sing this double fight, But monie bade the world guid-night Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, CONTENTED Wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought; My mirth and guid humor are coin in my pouch, A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', A night o' good fellowship sowthers it a': Blind chance, let her snapper stoyte on her way, THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. APRIL, 1795. TUNE "Push about the Jorum." DOES haughty Gaul invasion threat? Ere we permit a foreign foe Fall de rall, &c. O let us not, like snarling tykes, For never, but by British hands, The kettle o' the kirk and state, * 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, Fall de rall, &c. 'The wretch that wad a tyrant own, Who will not sing, "God save the King," But while we sing, "God save the King," 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, Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud What are they?—The haunt of the tyrant and slave. The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, COMIN' THROUGH THE RYE. TUNE -"Gin a Body meet a Body" GIN a body meet a body, Comin' thro' the rye; Need a body cry? Ev'ry lassie has her laddie, Nane, they say, hae I! Yet a' the lads they smile at me, When comin' thro' the rye. Amang the train there is a swain I dearly lo'e mysel'; But whaur his hame, or what his name, I dinna care to tell. Gin a body meet a body, Comin' frae the town. |