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Your hearts are the stuff will be powder enough,

And your skulls are a storehouse o' lead,

Calvin's sons! Your skulls are a storehouse o' lead.

Poet Burns! poet Burns, wi' your priest-skelpin turns,
Why desert ye your auld native shire?

Your muse is a gipsy, yet were she e'en tipsy,

She could ca' us nae waur than we are,

Poet Burns! She could ca' us nae waur than we are.


Factor John! Factor John, whom the Lord made alone,
And ne'er made anither, thy peer,

Thy poor servant, the Bard, in respectful regard,
He presents thee this token sincere,

Factor John! He presents thee this token sincere.

Afton's Laird! Afton's Laird, when your pen can be spared,

A copy of this I bequeath,

On the same sicker score as I mention'd before,

To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith,

Afton's Laird! To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith.

10 Aug., 1789.

Addressed to ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq. of Fintry.
I CALL no Goddess to inspire my strains,
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns:
Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns,
And all the tribute of my heart returns,
For boons accorded, goodness ever new,
The gifts still dearer, as the giver you.
Thou orb of day! thou other paler light!
And all ye many sparkling stars of night!
If aught that giver from my mind efface,
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace,
Then roll to me along your wand'ring spheres,
Only to number out a villain's years!

I lay my hand upon my swelling breast,
And grateful would, but cannot speak the rest.


On being appointed to an Excise division.
SEARCHING auld wives' barrels,

Ochon the day!

That clarty barm should stain my laurels:
But-what'll ye say?

These movin' things ca'd wives an' weans,
Wad move the very hearts o' stanes!


O WILLIE brew'd a peck o' maut,
And Rob and Allen cam to see;
Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night,
Ye wadna found in Christendie.

Chorus. We are na fou, we're nae that fou,
But just a drappie in our ee;

The cock may craw, the day may daw
we'll taste the barley bree.

And aye

Here are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys I trow are we;
And mony a night we've merry been,
And mony mae we hope to be!
We are na fou, &c.

It is the moon, I ken her horn,
That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie;
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee!
We are na fou, &c.

Wha first shall rise to gang awa,
A cuckold, coward loun is he!
Wha first beside his chair shall fa',
He is the King amang us three.
We are na fou, &c.

1 Willie is Nicol, Allan is Masterton the writing-master. The scene is between Moffat and the head of the Loch of the Lowes. Date, August-September, 1789.-Lang.

CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES Chorus.-Ca' the yowes to the knowes,

Ca' them where the heather grows,
Ca' them where the burnie rowes,
My bonie dearie.

As I gaed down the water-side,
There I met my shepherd lad:
He row'd me sweetly in his plaid,
And he ca'd me his dearie.
Ca' the yowes, &c.

Will ye gang down the water-side,
And see the waves sae sweetly glide
Beneath the hazels spreading wide,
The moon it shines fu' clearly.
Ca' the yowes, &c.

Ye sall get gowns and ribbons meet,
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet,
And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep,
ye sall be my dearie.

Ca' the yowes, &c.

If ye'll but stand to what ye've said,
I'se gang wi' thee, my shepherd lad,
And ye may row me in your plaid,
And I sall be your dearie.
Ca' the yowes, &c.

While waters wimple to the sea,
While day blinks in the lift sae hie,
Till clay-cauld death sall blin' my e'e,
Ye sall be my dearie.

Ca' the yowes, &c.


I GAED a waefu' gate yestreen,

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue;
I gat my death frae twa sweet een,
Twa lovely een o' bonie blue.

"Twas not her golden ringlets bright,
Her lips like roses wat wi' dew,
Her heaving bosom, lily-white-
It was her een sae bonie blue.

She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd;
She charm'd my soul I wist na how;
And aye the stound, the deadly wound,
Cam frae her een so bonie blue.
But "spare to speak, and spare to speed;"
She'll aiblins listen to my vow:
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead
To her twa een sae bonie blue.


My Harry was a gallant gay,

Fu' stately strade he on the plain;
But now he's banish'd far away,
I'll never see him back again.

Chorus.-O for him back again!
O for him back again!

I wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land
For Highland Harry back again.

When a' the lave gae to their bed,

I wander dowie up the glen;
I set me down and greet my fill,
And aye I wish him back again.
O for him, &c.

O were some villains hangit high,
And ilka body had their ain!
Then I might see the joyfu' sight,
My Highland Harry back again.
O for him, &c.


Tune "The Cameronian Rant."

"O CAM ye here the fight to shun,
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man?
Or were ye at the Sherra-moor,

Or did the battle see, man?"
I saw the battle, sair and teugh,
And reekin-red ran mony a sheugh;

My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds

O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds,
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.
La, la, la, la, &c.

The red-coat lads, wi' black cockauds,

To meet them were na slaw, man;

They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd
And mony a bouk did fa', man:

The great Argyle led on his files,

I wat they glanced twenty miles;

They hough'd the clans like nine-pin kyles,

They hack'd and hash'd, while braid-swords clash'd,

And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd,

Till fey men died awa, man.

La, la, la, la, &c.

But had ye seen the philibegs,

And skyrin tartan trews, man;

When in the teeth they dar'd our Whigs,
And covenant True-blues, man:
In lines extended lang and large,
When baiginets o'erpower'd the targe,
And thousands hasten'd to the charge;
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath,
They fled like frighted dows, man!
La, la, la, la, &c.

"O how deil, Tam, can that be true?
The chase gaed frae the north, man;

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