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When wretches range in famish'd swarms
The scented groves,
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms
In hunger-droves.
The scented groves,
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms
In hunger-droves.
Their gun's a burden on their shouther;
They downa bide the stink o' powther;
Their bauldest thought's a haunk'ring swither
To stan' or rin,
Till skelp—a shot—they're aff, a' throw'ther,
To save their skin.
They downa bide the stink o' powther;
Their bauldest thought's a haunk'ring swither
To stan' or rin,
Till skelp—a shot—they're aff, a' throw'ther,
To save their skin.
But bring a Scotsman frae his hill,
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,
Say, Sic is royal George's will,
And there's the foe;
He has nae thought but how to kill
Twa at a blow.
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,
Say, Sic is royal George's will,
And there's the foe;
He has nae thought but how to kill
Twa at a blow.
Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubting tease him;
Death comes!—wi' fearless ee he sees him;
Wi' bludy hand a welcome gies him;
And when he fa's,
His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him
In faint huzzas.
Death comes!—wi' fearless ee he sees him;
Wi' bludy hand a welcome gies him;
And when he fa's,
His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him
In faint huzzas.
Sages their solemn een may steek,
And raise a philosophic reek,
And physically causes seek,
In clime and season;
But tell me Whisky's name in Greek,
I'll tell the reason.
And raise a philosophic reek,
And physically causes seek,
In clime and season;
But tell me Whisky's name in Greek,
I'll tell the reason.
