Here's A Health To Them That's Awa

Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa; And wha winna wish gude luck to our cause, May never gude luck be their fa'!

It's gude to be merry and wise, It's gude to be honest and true; It's gude to support Caledonia's cause, And bide by the buff and the blue.

Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to Charlie^1 the chief o' the clan, Altho' that his band be but sma'!

May Liberty meet wi' success!

May Prudence protect her frae evil!

May tyrants and tyranny tine i' the mist, And wander their way to the devil!

Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa; Here's a health to Tammie,^2 the Norlan' laddie, That lives at the lug o' the law!

Here's freedom to them that wad read, Here's freedom to them that wad write,

[Footnote 1: Charles James Fox.]

[Footnote 2: Hon. Thos. Erskine, afterwards Lord Erskine.]

There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be heard, But they whom the truth would indite.

Here's a Health to them that's awa, An' here's to them that's awa!

Here's to Maitland and Wycombe, let wha doesna like 'em Be built in a hole in the wa'; Here's timmer that's red at the heart Here's fruit that is sound at the core; And may he be that wad turn the buff and blue coat Be turn'd to the back o' the door.

Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa; Here's chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth gowd, Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw; Here's friends on baith sides o' the firth, And friends on baith sides o' the Tweed; And wha wad betray old Albion's right, May they never eat of her bread!

A Tippling Ballad

On the Duke of Brunswick's Breaking up his Camp, and the defeat of the Austrians, by Dumourier, November 1792.

When Princes and Prelates, And hot-headed zealots, A'Europe had set in a low, a low, The poor man lies down, Nor envies a crown, And comforts himself as he dow, as he dow, And comforts himself as he dow.

The black-headed eagle, As keen as a beagle, He hunted o'er height and o'er howe, In the braes o' Gemappe, He fell in a trap, E'en let him come out as he dow, dow, dow, E'en let him come out as he dow.

But truce with commotions, And new-fangled notions, A b.u.mper, I trust you'll allow; Here's George our good king, And Charlotte his queen, And lang may they ring as they dow, dow, dow, And lang may they ring as they dow.

1793

Poort.i.th Cauld And Restless Love

Tune--"Cauld Kail in Aberdeen."

O poort.i.th cauld, and restless love, Ye wrack my peace between ye; Yet poort.i.th a' I could forgive, An 'twere na for my Jeanie.

Chorus--O why should Fate sic pleasure have, Life's dearest bands untwining?

Or why sae sweet a flower as love Depend on Fortune's shining?

The warld's wealth, when I think on, It's pride and a' the lave o't; O fie on silly coward man, That he should be the slave o't!

O why, &c.

Her e'en, sae bonie blue, betray How she repays my pa.s.sion; But prudence is her o'erword aye, She talks o' rank and fashion.

O why, &c.

O wha can prudence think upon, And sic a la.s.sie by him?

O wha can prudence think upon, And sae in love as I am?

O why, &c.

How blest the simple cotter's fate!

He woos his artless dearie; The silly bogles, wealth and state, Can never make him eerie, O why, &c.

On Politics

In Politics if thou would'st mix, And mean thy fortunes be; Bear this in mind,--be deaf and blind, Let great folk hear and see.

Braw Lads O' Galla Water

Braw, braw lads on Yarrow-braes, They rove amang the blooming heather; But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws Can match the lads o' Galla Water.

But there is ane, a secret ane, Aboon them a' I loe him better; And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, The bonie lad o' Galla Water.

Altho' his daddie was nae laird, And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher, Yet rich in kindest, truest love, We'll tent our flocks by Galla Water.

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure; The bands and bliss o' mutual love, O that's the chiefest warld's treasure.

Sonnet Written On The Author's Birthday,

On hearing a Thrush sing in his Morning Walk.

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, At thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow.