4
That day their neighbour's 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 shentlemen,
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;
The ye may tell how pell and mell,
By red claymores and musket knell,
Wi' dying yell, the tories fell,
And whigs to hell did flee, man.
SCOTIA'S SONS.
Blythe blythe around the nappy,
Let us join in social glee;
While we're here we'll hae a drappy;
Scotia's son's hae aye been free.
Our auld forbears when owre their yill,
And cantie bickers round, did ca',
Forsooth, they cried, anither gill,
For sweer't we are to gang aws.
Blythe, blythe, &c.
