ON THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR,

BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND THE EARL OF MAR.

TUNE 'THE CAMERONIAN RANT.'

'O CAM ye here the fight to shun,
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man?
Or were you at the Sherra-muir,
And did the battle see, man?'
I saw the battle, sair and teugh,
And reeking-red ran monie a sheugh,
My heart, for fear, gae 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.

The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades,
To meet them were na slaw, man;
They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd,
And monie a bouk did fa', man:

And great Argyle led on his files,

I wat they glanced twenty miles :

They hack'd and hash'd, while broad-swords clash'd, And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd,

Till fey men died awa, man.

But had you 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 bayonets oppos'd the targe,
And thousands hasten'd to the charge,
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath
Drew blades o' death, till, out of breath,
They fled like frighted doos, man.

'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; And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, They took the brig wi' a' their might, And straught to Stirling wing'd their flight ; But, cursed lot! the gates were shut, And monie a huntit, poor red-coat, For fear amaist did swarf, man.'

My sister Kate cam up the gate
Wi' crowdie unto me, man;
She swore she saw some rebels run
Frae Perth unto Dundee, man:
Their left-hand general had nae skill,
The Angus lads had nae guid-will,
That day their neebors' blood to spill;
For fear, by foes, that they should lose
Their cogs o' brose; all crying woes,
And so it goes, you see, man.

They've lost some gallant gentlemen
Amang the Highland clans, man ;
I fear my lord Panmure is slain,

Or fallen in whiggish hands, man :

Now wad ye sing this double fight,
Some fell for wrang, and some for right;
But monie bade the world guid-night;
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell,
By red claymores, and muskets' knell,
Wi' dying yell, the tories fell,

And whigs to hell did flee, man.

THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS.

TUNE 'PUSH ABOUT THE JORUM.'

April, 1759.

DOES haughty Gaul invasion threat?
Then let the loons beware, Sir,
There's wooden walls upon our seas,
And volunteers on shore, Sir.
The Nith shall run to Corsincon,
And Criffel sink to Solway,

Ere we permit a foreign foe
On British ground to rally!

Fal de ral, &c.

O let us not like snarling tykes
In wrangling be divided ;
Till, slap, come in an unco loon
And wi' a rung decide it.
Be Britain still to Britain true,
Amang oursels united;

For never but by British hands

Maun British wrangs be righted!

Fal de ral, &c.

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' bluid the kettle bought,
And wha wad dare to spoil it;
By heaven, the sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil it.

Fal de ral, &c.

The wretch that wad a tyrant own,

And the wretch his true-born brother, Who would set the mob aboon the throne, May they be damned together! Who will not sing, 'God save the King,' Shall hang as high's the steeple ; But while we sing, 'God save the King,' We'll ne'er forget the People.

O WHA IS SHE THAT LO'ES ME.

TUNE-MORAG.'

O WHA is she that lo'es me,
And has my heart a-keeping?
O sweet is she that lo'es me,
As dews o' simmer weeping,
In tears the rose-buds steeping.

CHORUS.

O that's the lassie o' my heart,
My lassie ever dearer ;

O that's the queen o' womankind,
And ne'er a ane to peer her.

If thou shalt meet a lassie,

In grace and beauty charming,
That e'en thy chosen lassie,

Erewhile thy breast sae warming,
Had ne'er sic powers alarming;
O that's, &c.

If thou hadst heard her talking,
And thy attentions plighted,
That ilka body talking,

But her by thee is slighted,
And thou art all delighted;
O that's, &c.

If thou hast met this fair one; When frae her thou hast parted,

If every other fair one,

But her, thou hast deserted,
And thou art broken-hearted;
O that's, &c.

CAPTAIN GROSE.

TUNE 'SIR JOHN MALCOLM.'

KEN ye ought o' Captain Grose?
Igo, and ago,

If he's amang his friends or foes?
Iram, coram, dago.

Is he South, or is he North?

Igo, and ago,

Or drowned in the river Forth?

Iram, coram, dago.