John Cole, wi' his rifle, may beat us, I trow;
William Foster now sticks to his arrow and bow;
Let them come frae the Beaumont and Tweed to the Till,
We'll match them for something at Auld Heaton Mill:
Ay, sirs, look and see—a' these medals were ta'en,
By thrawing the hammer and putting the stane.
Etal, Crookham, and Ford, have na seen sic a day,
Since the trumpet's blast raised them for Flodden's affray,
But a bard of renown has that battle-field sung;
And I tell o' the games in my ain mother tongue:
We like sport but nae fighting,—just let us alane,
When thrawing the hammer and putting the stane.
The feuds on the Borders nae langer run fierce;
Northumberland kindly shakes hands wi' the Merse:
Baith sides o' the Tweed—and a cheer for the games,
And good health to the victors, whatever their claims,
And lang may the Border lads flourish and reign,
At thrawing the hammer and putting the stane.
The Thistle.
[Alexander Maclaggan.—Set to music by Mr. Turnbull, Glasgow.]
Hurrah for the thistle! the brave Scottish thistle,
The evergreen thistle of Scotland for me!
A fig for the flowers in your lady-built bowers—
The strong bearded, weel guarded thistle for me!
'Tis the flower the proud eagle greets in its flight,
When he shadows the stars with the wings of his might;
'Tis the flower that laughs at the storm as it blows,
For the stronger the tempest the greener it grows!
Hurrah for the thistle, &c.
Round the love-lighted hames o' our ain native land—
On the bonnetted brow, on the hilt of the brand—
On the face o' the shield, 'mid the shouts of the free,
May the thistle be seen where the thistle should be!
Hurrah for the thistle, &c.
Hale hearts we ha'e yet to bleed in its cause;
Bold harps we ha'e yet to sound its applause;
How then can it fade, when sic chiels an' sic cheer,
And sae mony braw sprouts o' the thistle are here?
Then hurrah for the thistle! the brave Scottish thistle,
The evergreen thistle of Scotland for me!
A fig for the flowers in your lady-built bowers.
The strong bearded, weel guarded thistle for me!
