The Nith shall run to Corsincon,
And Criffel sink in Solway,
Ere we permit a foreign foe
On British ground to rally.
O let us not, like snarling curs,
In wrangling be divided,
Till slap come in an unco loon,
And wi' a rung decide it.
Be Britain still to Britain true,
Among ourselves united;
For never but by British hands
Must British wrongs be righted.
The kettle o' the kirk and state,
Perhaps a clout may fail in't,
But deil a foreign tinkler loon
Shall ever ca' a nail in't.
Our fathers' blood the kettle bought,
And who would dare to spoil it?
By heaven, the sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil it!
The wretch that would a tyrant own;
And the wretch, his true-born brother,
Who'd set the mob aboon the throne;
May they be damned together!
Who will not sing, "God save the king!"
Shall hing as high 's the steeple;
But while we sing, "God save the king!"
We'll ne'er forget the people.
Gudewife, count the lawin.
[Burns furnished the tune and words of this song to Johnson's Museum. "The chorus," he says, "is part of an old song, one stanza of which I recollect:
Every day my wife tells me
That ale and brandy will ruin me;
But if gude liquor be my dead,
This shall be written on iny head—
O gudewife, count the lawin,
The lawin, the lawin;
O gudewife, count the lawin,
And bring a coggie mair."]
Gane is the day, and mirk's the night;
But we'll ne'er stray for faut o' light:
For ale and brandy's stars and moon,
And blud-red wine's the rising sun.
Then, gudewife, count the lawin,
The lawin, the lawin,
Then, gudewife, count the lawin,
And bring a coggie mair.
There's wealth and ease for gentlemen,
And semple folk maun fecht and fen;
But here we're a' in ae accord,
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord.
My coggie is a haly pool,
That heals the wounds o' care and dool;
And pleasure is a wanton trout—
An ye drink but deep, ye'll find him out.
Then, gudewife, count the lawin,
The lawin, the lawin,
Then, gudewife, count the lawin,
And bring's a coggie mair.
He is gone on the mountain.
[Sir Walter Scott.—From "The Lady of the Lake."]
He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest.
The font, re-appearing,
From the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering,
To Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Walls manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing
Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing,
When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the correl,
Sage counsel in cumber,
Hed band in the foray,
How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and for ever!
