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My auld auntie Katie
Upon me taks pity;
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan;
I'll croſs him, and wrack him,
Until I heart-break him,
And then his auld braſs will buy me a new pan.
Bonaparte o'er the Sea.
Bonaparte, o'er the ſea,
Threatens you, and threatens me;
But, ſingle-handed tho' we be,
We'll whiſtle o'er the lave o't.
Let him come, or let him ſend,
Back again he'll never bend;
Our iſland is his journey's end,
He'll only find a grave o't.
And for the fiend like ſons of ſtrife,
Wha'd ſtain the ſoil that gie'd us life,
By a' that's dear to man and wife,
An inch they'll never have o't.
