For while we're united foes threaten in vain,
And their daring our fame shall increase,
Till the banner of Victory o'er land and main,
Triumphant is waving in Peace.
Here's a health, &c.
Scotland yet.
[Written by the Rev. H. S. Riddel. Set music by Peter Macleod.]
Gae bring my gude auld harp ance mair,
Gae bring it firm and fast—
For I maun sing anither sang,
Ere a' my glee be past.
And trow ye as I sing, my lads,
The burden o't shall be,
Auld Scotland's howes, and Scotland's knowes,
And Scotland's hills for me!
I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,
Wi' a' the honours three.
The heath waves wild upon her hills,
And, foaming frae the fells,
Her fountains sing o' freedom still,
As they dance down the dells;
And weel I lo'e the land, my lads,
That's girded by the sea;
Then Scotland's dales, and Scotland's vales,
And Scotland's hills for me!
I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,
Wi' a' the honours three.
Her thistle wags upon the fields
Where Wallace bore his blade,
That gave her foemen's dearest bluid
To dye her auld grey plaid;
And looking to the lift, my lads,
He sang this doughty glee,
Auld Scotland's right, and Scotland's might,
And Scotland's hills for me!
Then drink a cup to Scotland yet,
Wi' a' the honours three.
They tell o' lands wi' brighter skies,
Where freedom's voice ne'er rang—
Gi'e me the hills where Ossian dwelt,
And Coila's Minstrel sang;
For I've nae skill o' lands, my lads,
That ken na to be free,
Then Scotland's right, and Scotland's might,
And Scotland's hills for me!
We'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,
Wi' a' the honours three.
Janet and Me.
[Robert Gilfillan.]
O, wha are sae happy as me and my Janet?
O, wha are sae happy as Janet and me
We're baith turning auld, and our walth is soon tauld,
But contentment ye'll find in our cottage sae wee.
She spins the lang day when I'm out wi' the owsen,
She croons i' the house while I sing at the plough;
And aye her blythe smile welcomes me frae my toil,
As up the lang glen I come wearied, I trow!
When I'm at a beuk she is mending the cleading,
She's darning the stockings when I sole the shoon;
Our cracks keep us cheery—we work till we're weary;
And syne we sup sowans when ance we are done.
She's baking a scone while I'm smoking my cutty,
While I'm in the stable she's milking the kye;
I envy not kings when the gloaming time brings
The canty fireside to my Janet and I!
Aboon our auld heads we've a decent clay bigging,
That keeps out the cauld when the simmers awa';
We've twa wabs o' linen, o' Janet's ain spinning,
As thick as dog-lugs, and as white as the snaw!
We've a kebbuck or twa, and some meal i' the gimel;
Yon sow is our ain that plays grunt at the door;
An' something, I've guess'd, 'sin yon auld painted kist,
That Janet, fell bodie, 's laid up to the fore!
Nae doubt, we have haen our ain sorrows and troubles,
Aften times pouches toom, and hearts fu' o' care;
But still, wi' our crosses, our sorrows and losses,
Contentment, be thankit, has aye been our share;
I've an auld rusty sword, that was left by my father,
Whilk ne'er shall be drawn till our king has a fae;
We ha'e friends ane or twa, that aft gi'e us a ca',
To laugh when we're happy, or grieve when we're wae.
