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

66

"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 ewarf, 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.

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, &ci.

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.

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave:

Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace

What are they? The haunt of the tyrant and slave.

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, The brave Caledonian views with disdain:

He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean

COMIN' THROUGH THE RYE.

TUNE

"Gin a Body meet a Body"

GIN a body meet a body,

Comin' thro' the rye;
Gin a body kiss a body,

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