When our brave Highland blades,
Wi' their claymores and plaids,
In the field drive like sheep a' our foes, man;
Their courage and pow'r—
Spring frae this to be sure,
They're the noble effects o' the brose, man.
Then hey, &c.
But your spyndle-shank'd sparks,
Wha sae ill fill their sarks,
Your pale-visaged milksops and beaux, man;
I think when I see them,
'Twere kindness to gi'e them—
A cogie o' yill or o' brose, man.
Then hey, &c.
What John Bull despises,
Our better sense prizes,
He denies eatin' blanter ava, man;
But by eatin' o' blanter.
His mare's grown, I'll warrant her,
The manliest brute o' the twa, man.
Then hey, &c.
Donald Gunn.
[David Webster.—Air, "Johnnie Pringle."]
Heard ye e'er o' Donald Gunn,
Ance sae duddy, dowf, and needy,
Now a laird in yonder toun,
Callous-hearted, proud, and greedy.
Up the glen aboon the linn,
Donald met wi' Maggie Millar,
Wooed the lass amang the whins,
Because she had the word o' siller;
Meg was neither trig nor braw,
Had mae fauts than ane laid till her;
Donald looket ower them a',
A' his thought was on the siller.
Heard ye e'er, &c.
Donald grew baith braid and braw,
Ceased to bore the whinstone quarry,
Maggie's siller pays for a',
Breeks instead o' duddy barrie:
Though he's ignorant as a stirk,
Though he's doure as ony donkey;
Yet, by accidental jirk
Donald rides before a fltinky.
Heard ye e'er, &c.
Clachan bairnies roar wi' fright,
Clachan dogs tak' to their trotters,
Clachan wives the pathway dicht
To tranquillise his thraward features:
Gangrel bodies in the street
Beck and bow to make him civil,
Tenant bodies in his debt,
Shun him as they'd shun the devil.
Heard ye e'er, &c.
Few gangs trigger to the fair,
Few gangs to the kirk sae gaucie,—
Few wi' Donald can compare
To keep the cantel o' the causie:
In his breast a bladd o' stane,
Neith his hat a box o' brochan,
In his nieve a wally cane,
Thus the tyrant rules the clachan.
Heard ye e'er, &c.
Miss Weir.
[Said to be composed by a Seceding Clergyman at Biggar.]
O love! thou delights in man's ruin,
Thy conquests they cost us full dear;
Maun I forfeit my life for the viewing
The charms o' that lovely Miss Weir?
Tho' sometimes thou bid me aspire,
Again thou distracts me wi' fear
And envy o' ane that is higher—
Wha's even'd to the charming Miss Weir.
As down in yon valley a-walking,
Whare nae christen'd creature was near,
The birds all around me were talking
O' naething but charming Miss Weir:
That sweet little bird, called the linnet,
In accents delightfully dear,
Declared to the world that in it
Was nought like the lovely Miss Weir.
Oh Cupid! my head it is muddy,
I wish it may ever be clear;
For aye, wh^ I sit down to study,
My mind runs on charming Miss Weir.
I'm toss'd like a ship on the ocean,
That kens na what course for to steer;
Yet at times I'm so vain in my motion.
As hope for the lovely Miss Weir.
