With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn; But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn. Long quiet she reign'd; till thitherward steers Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell. The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose, With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife; Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose, And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life: The Anglian lion, the terror of France, {flood; Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, He learned to fear in his own native wood. Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free, Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : For brave Caledonia immortal must be; I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun: BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR. Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose, 181 The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base; But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse; Then ergo, she'll match them, and match them always. ON THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, Between the Duke of Argyll and the Earl of Mar. TUNE-The Cameronian Rant. 'O, CAM ye here the fight the shun, And great Argyll led on his files, I wat they glanced twenty miles : [clash'd, They hack'd and hash'd, while broad-swords And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd, But had you seen the philibegs, When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs, And covenant true blues, man; In lines extended lang and large, ‹ O, how deil, Tam, can that be true? The chase gaed frae the north, man; I saw mysel, they did pursue The horsemen back to Forth, man; My sister Kate cam up the gate And so it goes you see, man. They've lost some gallant gentlemen Or fallen in whiggish hands, man: THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, And whigs to hell did flee, man. 183 THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. TUNE-Push about the jorum. April, 1795. DOES haughty Gaul invasion threat? Ere we permit a foreign foe Fall de rall, &c. O, let us not like snarling tykes And wi' a rung decide it. Be Britain still to Britain true, For never but by British hands Maun British wrangs be righted. The kettle o' the kirk and state, 184 O, WHA IS SHE THAT LO’es me. Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, And wha wad dare to spoil it; By heaven, the sacrilegious dog Shall fuel be to boil it. Fall de rall, &c. The wretch that wad a tyrant own, Who will not sing, God save the King,' O, WHA IS SHE THAT LO'ES ME. O, WHA is she that lo'es me, CHORUS. O, that's the lassie o' my heart, O, that's the queen o' womankind, If thou shalt meet a lassie, In grace and beauty charming, Ere while thy breast sae warming, O, that's, &c. |