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When wretches range in famish'd swarms The scented groves, Or hounded forth, dishonour arms In hunger-droves.
Their gun's a burden on their shouther; They downa bide the stink o' powther; Their bauldest thorght's a haunk'ring swither To ston' or rin, Till skelp-a shot-they're aff, a' throw ther, To save their skin,
But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, Say, Sic is royal George's will, And there's the foe; He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow.
Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubting tease him; Death comes!-wi' fearless ee he sees him; Wi' bludy hand a welcome gies him; And when he fa's, His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him In faint huzzas.
Sages their solemn een may steek, And raise a philosophic reek, And physically causes seek, In clime and season; But tell me Whisky's name in Greek, I'll tell the reason.
