5
Wi' spears o' pointit steel, man;
But by my feggs, the Scots bare legs,
Wad fright the very D—l, man.’
So in a pet, aff hame he set,
Nae langer wad he bide, man;
The cowardly loun to Paris town,
That vera night did ride, man;
An' left his men upon the plain,
Wha kentna what to do, man;
Sae in a bing their guns did fling,
An' ran frae Waterloo, man.
So now we've peace; and in that case,
We'll hae an interview, man,
With our brave boys, chief o' our joys,
Wha fought at Waterloo, man:
An' Donnel now ance mair will view
His mither's whisky pat, man;
An' dance, and drink, an' never think
Of a' the wounds he gat, man.
Lang may the Scots wear tartan coats,
Which is their country's pride, man;
Wi' Highland plaid baith lang and braid,
To wallop at their side, man.
A Highland man's a happy man,
He's hardy ay and frisky;
He fears nae foes gin he gets brose,
An' draps o' Highland whisky.
