Excellent new song, called, The smugglers and the gaugers/Farewel to Coalsnaton

FAREWEL TO COALSNATON.

Air—Watty Graham.

⁠Farewel to Coalsnaughton, and old comrades adieu,
Altho’ I am sorry for parting with you;
It’s nothing but informers that drives me from thee,
For to make a drap whisky in the Southcountrie.

⁠For when I had labour’d, and had made a house,
The informers came on me, as cunning’s a mouse;
Then straight to the Gaugers they foreward did flee,
But they will not do so in the Southcountrie.

⁠Oh! when I was brewing in Cornilus’ pit;
The hard-hearted Gaughers got me in their grip;
They said, To our King we have always been true,
So give us the Whisky that is beside you.

⁠I said, My good fellows, now don’t be so vile,
I have made my Whisky by labour and toil;
And for such oppression I don’t know a law.
So I’ll leave the Northcountry for fair Gallowa’.

⁠MY friends they look down, but it’s not with disdain,
That e’er I should offer to go back again;
But how can I stay amongst tyrants so rude.
Who would first take my Whisky, and then shed my blood?

⁠When my confinement is done at home, I will not stay;
As I have a good offer, I will go away:
Heaven pity poor Britons under the Corn-Law,
For I hope I’ll be free (illegible text), when in Gallowa’.

⁠My brothers have fought for their country’s weal,
With undaunted courage and hearts true as steel;
Tho’ William was wounded they never did sa’,
So I’ll drink a health to them, when in Gallowa’.

⁠Altho’ that the mountains between us be-high,
Where nothing but muirfowls and plevers do fly,
I’ll still pity Scotland under the Corn-Law,
When I’m making Whisky in fair Gallowa’.

⁠Farewel aged mother and brothers adieu,
If Providence spares me I’ll come and see you:
So do not be grieved tho’ I gang awa’
To enjoy my freedom in fair Gallowa’.

⁠But as for you James, dear brother to me,
We oft het the kettle, where none did us see;
And I hope for to do it, when I am awa’,
On the fine heather mountains into Gallowa’.

⁠Likewise for my deary, my heart is in grief,
And nothing will comfort or bring me relief,
Until I get another, when I am awa’,
And safely arrived in fair Gallowa’.

⁠Tho' at present, dear comrads in jail I’m confin’d,
Yet to go to the south I am fully design’d;
I wont mind my lasses nor sweethearts ava,
That would stop from going to fair Gallowa’.

⁠But alas for poor Smugglers, their spirits are broke,
And I have got wearied in bearing the yoke;
But I hope to live happy, as happy can be,
And make a drap Whisky in the south countrie.

⁠Farewel my sweet comrads, I bid you adieu!
Your hearts they are soft and they always were kind,
But as for informers I don’t care a flea:
So I wish a safe landing in the south countrie.