We'll exercise within the groves,
And preach beneath the tree;
We'll make a pulpit of a cask,
And hey, then up go we!

We'll down with deans and prebends too,
And I rejoice to tell ye,

How we shall eat good pigs our fill,
And capons stew'd in jelly.

We'll burn the fathers' learned books,
And make the schoolmen flee ;
We'll down with all that smells of wit,
And hey, then up go we!

If once the greedy churchmen crew
Be crush'd and overthrown,
We'll teach the nobles how to stoop,
And keep the gentry down.
Good manners have an ill report,

And turn to pride we see ;
We'll therefore cry good manners down,
And hey, then up go we!

The name of lord shall be abhorr'd,
For every man's a brother;

No reason why, in church or state,

One man should rule another.

Now when this change of government

Has set our fingers free,

We'll make their saucy dames come down,

And hey, then up go we!

What though the king and parliament
Do now accord together?

We have more cause to be content,
This is our sunshine weather.

For if that reason should take place,
And they should disagree,

For us there would be little grace;
For hey, then up go we!

What should we do then in such case?
Let's put it to a venture,

If we can hold out seven years' space,
We'll sue out our indenture.

A time may come to make us rue,
Yet time may set us free,
Unless the gallows claim his due,

And hey, then up go we!

GIN YE MEET A BONNIE LASSIE.

Gin ye meet a bonnie lassie,

Gie her a kiss an' let her gae;

But gin ye meet a dirty hussy,
Fy gae rub her ower wi' strae,
Nought is like a bonny lassie,

Brisk an' bonny, blithe and gay;
But gin ye meet a dirty hussy,
Fy gae rub her ower wi' strae.

Be sure ye dinna quat the grip
O' ilka joy while ye are young,

Afore auld age your veetals nip,
An' lay ye twafauld ower a rung.
But look out for a bonny lassie,
Brisk an' bonny, blithe an' gay;
But gin ye meet a dirty hussy,
Fy gae rub her ower wi' strae.

Auld age an' youth has joys apart,
An' though they dinna weel combine,
The honest, kind, an' gratefu' heart
Will aye be blithe like yours an' mine.
But nought is like a bonny lassie,
Dearer gift Heav'n never gae;
But gin ye meet a dirty hussy,
Fy gae rub her ower wi' strae.

MOGGY AND ME.

O wha are sae happy as me an' my Moggy?
O wha are sae happy as Moggy an' me?
We're baith turnin' auld, an' our walth is soon tauld,
But contentment bides aye in our cottage sae wee.
She toils a' the day when I'm out wi' the hirsel,

An' chaunts to the bairns while I sing on the brae; An' aye her blithe smile welcomes me frae my toil, When down the glen I come weary an' wae.

Aboon our auld heads we've a nice little biggen, That keeps out the cauld when the simmer's awa; We've twa wabs o' linen o' Moggy's ain spinnin',

As thick as silk velvet and white as the snaw;

We've kie in the byre, an' yauds in the stable,

A grumphie sae fat that she hardly can stand; An' something, I guess, in yon auld painted press, To cheer up the speerits an' steady the hand.

'Tis true we hae had mony sorrows an' crosses,
Our pouches oft toom, an' our hearts fu' o' care;
But wi' a' our crosses, our sorrows, an losses,

Contentment, thank Heaven! has aye been our share. I've an auld roostit sword that was left by my father, Whilk aye has been drawn when my king had a fae! We hae friends ane or twa that aft gie us a ca',

To laugh when we're happy or grieve when we're wae.

Our duke may hae goud mair than schoolmen can reckon, An' flunkies to watch ilka glance o' his ee,

His lady aye braw sittin prim in the ha';

But are they sae happy as Moggy an' me?

A' ye wha ne'er fand the straight road to be happy,
Wha are nae content wi' the lot that ye dree,
Come down to the dwellin' o' whilk I've been tellin',-
You'll learn it by looking at Moggy and me.

RISE! RISE! LOWLAND AND HIGHLAND MEN.

Rise! rise! lowland and highland men;

Bald sire and beardless son, each come, and early: Rise! rise! mainland and island men,

Belt on your broad swords, and fight for Prince Charlie !

Down from the mountain steep,

Up from the valley deep

Out from the clachan, the bothy, and sheeling;
Bugle and battle-drum,

Bid chief and vassal come;

Loudly our bagpipes the pibroch are pealing.

Rise, rise, &c.

CHORUS.

Men of the mountains !-descendants of heroes!
Heirs of the fame and the hills of your fathers,—
Say, shall the Sassenach Southron not fear us,
When fierce to the war-peal each plaided clan gathers?
Long on the trophied walls

Of your ancestral halls

Rust hath been blunting the armour of Albin:
Seize, then, ye mountain Macs,

Buckler and battle-axe,

Lads of Lochaber, Brae-Mar, and Bredalbine.

CHORUS.

Rise, rise, &c.

When hath the tartan plaid mantled a coward?
When did the bonnet blue crest the disloyal?
Up, then, and crowd to the standard of Stuart !
Follow your hero, the rightful, the royal.

Come, chief of Clanronald,

And gallant M'Donald;

Come Lovet, Lochiel, with the Grant and the Gordon;