3
And the spirit of a Highland chief should glister in
his eye.
The pipes should play a cheerful strain, the banners
round him fly,
And for his king and country with pleasure he will
die.
But I hope yet to see him in Scotlands bonny
bounds,
But I hope yet to see him, 8c.
His native land of liberty will nurse his glorious
wounds.
While wide thro' all the Highland hills his warlike
name resounds.
THE WEARY PUND O TOW.
The weary pund, the weary pund,
The weary pund a' tow;
I think my wife will end her life,
Before she spin her tow.
I bought my wife a stane o' lint,
As good as e'er did grow ;
And a' that she has made o' that,
Is we poor pund o' tow.
The weary pund, the weary pund,
The weary pund o' tow;
I think my wife will end her life,
Before she spin her tow.
There sat a bottle in the bole,
Beyond the ingle low,
