George the just! George the good!

Still reigns in splendour !

THE AULD HIGHLANDMAN.

TUNE-Killiecrankie.

HERSEL pe aughty eirs an' twa,

Te twanty-tird o’ May, man; She twall amang te Heelan hills,

Apoon te reefer Spey, man. Tat eir tey faucht te Shirramoor, She first peheld te licht, man; Tey shot my fater in tat stour

A plaguit, vexan spite, man..

I've feucht in Scotlan' here at hame,

In France an' Shermanie, man ; An' cot tree tespurt pluddy oons

Peyon te 'Lantic sea, man. Put wae licht on te nasty gun,

Tat ever she pe porn, man ; File coot claymore te tristle guard

Her leaves pe nefer torn, man.

Ae tay I shot, an' shot, an' shot,

Fan eer it kam my turn, man;

Put a' te foirs tat I cood gie,

My powter wadna purn, man. A filthy loun kam wi' his gun,

Resolvt to too me harm, man ; An' wi' te dirk upon her nose

Ke me a pluddy arm, man.

I flang my gun wi' a' my might,

An' fellt his neiper teet, man; Tan trew my sord, an' at a straik

Hew't aff te haf o's heet, man. Pe vain to tell o' a' my tricks;

My oons pe nae tisgrace, man; Ekseppin ane akross my hips,

Ter a' before my face, man.

Frae Roman, Saxon, Pick, an' Dane,

We hae cot muckle skaith, man; Yet still te Scot has kept his ain,

In spite o' their teeih, man. Ten rause, my lads, an' fear nae fae;

For if ye're keen an' true, man, Although te French pe sax time mae,

She'll never konker you, man.

I'm auld an' stiff, an', owr my staff,

Can gang but unco slaw, man; But sood te Frenchman be sae taft

As venter here awa, man,

My sord, tat now is auld an' plunt,

I'll sharp upon a stane, man,
An' hirple toon unto te kost,

An' faucht for Shorge an' fame, man.

MY NATIVE ISLE.

TUNE-Sir Alex. Macdonald Lochart's Strathspey.

And must I leave my native Isle ;
Fair friendship's eye, affection's smile ;
The mountain sport, the angler's wile,

The birch and weeping willow, O!
The Highland glen, the healthy gale,
The gloaming glee, the evening tale ;
And must I leave my native vale,

And brave the boisterous billow, O!

How sweet to climb the mountain high,
While dawning gilds the eastern sky;
Or in the shade at noon to lie

Upon the fell so airy, 0.
And, when the sun is sinking low
Through woodland walks to wander slow;
Or kindly in my plaid to rowe

My gentle rosy Mary, 0.

My native Isle ! I love thee well;
I love thee more than I can tell:
Accept my last, my sad farewell;

In thee I may not tarry, 0,
What makes my bosom heave so high ?
What makes the dewdrop gild mine eye!
Alas! that dew would quickly dry,

If 'twere not for my Mary, O!

O youth! thou season light and gay,
How soon thy pleasures melt away!
Like dream dispell’d by dawning day,

Or waking wild vagary, 0.
The thrush shall quit the woodland dale.
The lav'rock cease the dawn to hail,
Ere I forget my native vale,

Or my sweet lovely Mary, O!

BUCCLEUCH'S BIRTHDAY.

TUNE-Macfarlane's Reel.

O Fy let's a' be merry, boys,

O fy let's a' be merry.
This is a day we should rejoice;

Then fy let's a' be merry..
Our auld gudeman is hale an' free,

An' that should surely cheer us;

An' the flowers o' a'the south countrie
Are sweetly smiling near us.
Our day's nae done though it be dark;

Put round the Port an' Sherry ;
An' ask at Jarnes o' the Tower o’ Sark,

If we should nae a' be merry.

Blest be the day the Scot did gain

His name, and a' surrounding, " When in the cleuch the buck was ta'en,"

While hound and horn was sounding.
But ten times blessed be this day

That brought us noble Harry;
A nation's pride, a country's stay,
A friend that disna vary.
Then let's be merry ane an'a',

An' drink the Port an' Sherry;
An' spier at George o' the Carterha',

If we should nae a' be merry.

Then let us drink to brave Buccleuch,

An' our auld honest Geordie : For, seek the country through an' through,

We'll light on few sae worthy:
The one protects our native land,

And on the sea keeps order ;
The other guides the farmer's hand,

And rules the Scottish Border.