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 damned 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.
THE EXCISEMAN.
TUNE-The Deil cam fiddling through the Town.
THE deil cam fiddling through the town,
And danced awa wi' the Exciseman,
And ilka wife cries-" Auld Mahoun,
I wish you luck o' the prize man!"
The deil's awa, the deil's awa,
The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman;
He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa,
He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman!
We'll mak our maut, we'll brew our drink,
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man;
And mony braw thanks to the meikle black
deil
That danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.
The deil's awa, the deil's awa,
The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman;
He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa,
He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.
There's threesome reels, there's foursome
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man; But the ae best dance e'er cam to the land Was the deil's awa wi' the Exciseman. The deil's awa, the deil's awa,
The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman; He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa, He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.
BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE,
TARBOLTON.
TUNE-Good-night, and Joy be wi' you a'
ADIEU! a heart-warm, fond adieu!
Dear brothers of the mystic tie!
Ye favour'd, ye enlightend' few,
Companions of my social joy;
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie,
Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba',
With melting heart, and brimful eye,
I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'.
Oft have I met your social band,
And spent the cheerful, festive night,
Oft, honour'd with supreme command,
Presided o'er the sons of light,
And by that hieroglyphic bright,
Which none but craftsmen ever saw !
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write
Those happy scenes when far awa'.
May freedom, harmony, and love
Unite you in the grand design,
Beneath th' omniscient eye above,
The glorious Architect divine!
That you may keep th' unerring line,
Still rising by the plummet's law,
Till order bright completely shine,
Shall be my pray'r when far awa'.
And you, farewell! whose merits claim,
Justly, that highest badge to wear !
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name,
To masonry and Scotia dear!
A last request permit me here,
When yearly ye assemble a',
One round-I ask it with a tear-
To him, the Bard that's far awa'.
THE FETE CHAMPETRE.
TUNE-Killicrankie.
OH wha will to Saint Stephen's house,
To do our errands there, man?
Oh wha will to Saint Stephen's house,
O' th' merry lads of Ayr, man?
Or will we send a man o' law!
Or will we send a sodger?
Or him wha led o'er Scotland a'
The meikle Ursa-Major?
Come, will ye court a noble lord,
Or buy a score o' lairds, man?
For worth and honour pawn their word.
Their vote shall be Glencaird's, man?
Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine,
Anither gies them clatter;
Anbank, wha guess'd the ladies' taste,
He gies a Fête Champêtre.
When Love and Beauty heard the news,
The gay green-woods amang, man;
Where, gathering flowers and busking bowers,
They heard the blackbird's sang, man:
A vow, they seal'd it with a kiss,
Sir Politics to fetter,
As theirs alone, the patent-bliss,
To hold a Fête Champêtre.
Then mounted Mirth on gleesome wing,
Ower hill and dale she flew, man;
Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring,
Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man:
She summon'd every social sprite,
That sports by wood or water,
On the bonnie banks of Ayr to meet,
And keep this Fête Champêtre.
Cauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew.
Were bound to stakes like kye, man;
And Cynthia's car, o' silver fu',
Clamb up the starry sky, man:
Reflected beams dwell in the streams,
Or down the current shatter;
The western breeze steals through the trees To view this Fête Champêtre.
How many a robe sae gaily floats!
What sparkling jewels glance, man!
To Harmony's enchanting notes,
As moves the mazy dance, man.
The echoing wood, the winding flood,
Like Paradise did glitter,
When angels met, at Adam's yett,
To hold their Fête Champêtre.
When Politics came there, to mix
And make his ether-stane, man!
He circled round the magic ground,
But entrance found he nane, man
He blushed for shame, he quat his name,
Forswore it, every letter,
Wi' humble prayer to join and share
This festive Fête Champêtre.
WHERE Cart rins rowin to the sea,
By mony a flow'r and spreading tree,
There lives a lad, the lad for me,
He is a gallant weaver.
Oh, I had wooers aucht or nine,
They gied me rings and ribbons fine;
And I was fear'd my heart would tine,
And I gied it to the weaver.
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