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And never, but by Britain's sons,
Shall Britons' wrongs be righted,
Tho' haughty France, &c.

The Kettle of the Kirk and State.
Perhaps some clout may fail in't,
But de'il a foreign tinkler loon
Shall ever ca' a pail in’t.
Our fathers' blood this Kettle cost,
And wha wad dare to spoil it?
Who would, the sacriligous dog
Shall fuel be to boil it.
Tho' haughty France, &c.

The Bush aboon Traquair.

Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain,
I'll tell how Peggy grieves me;
Tho' thus I languish, thus complain,
Alas! she ne’er believes me:
My vows and sighs, like silent air,
Unheeded never move her;
At the bonny bush aboon Traquair,
'Twas there I first did love her.

That day she smil'd, and made me glad,
No maid seem'd ever kinder,
I thought myself the luckiest lad,
So sweetly there to find her:
I try’d to sooth my am'rous flame,
In words that I thought tender;
If more there pass'd, I'm not to blame,
I meant not to offend her.

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