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Then, Tyrant, dread! to conquest led
Bands in freedom's armour clad! -
Freedom! Tyrant !- Freedom! Freedom!

Blest Freedom! shield the brave !



Air.-A rock, and a wee pickle tow.

This warld o' ours has been lang in a low!-
I wonder wha bred the beginning o't?
God send us a rock, and a wee pickle tow !
And let us again to the spinning o't!
Our spinning, God help us ! is no ganging right;
Our men they're for fighting; our women tak

fright; We're vap'ring a' day; and we're blind-fou at

night: -But wha yet has heard o' the winning o't?

They crack o' our trade, and they crack o' our

walth; They brag o' our mills that are spinning o't; But, spite o' our boasting, and spite o' our pelf, Good faith! I hear few that are winning o’t. Our wabsters are breaking, our looms they stand

still! Our lads doing little but tending the drill! I doubt if e’en lairds now their pouches can fill-Ob, hon! for the wearie beginning o't!

They're plenty, nae doubt, who can haud their

head high, And ay wad be thought to be winning o't; We're a' ganging fine: but we ay keep abeigh, When folk wad keek in at the spinning o't. Our houses are glittering ; our lasses gang bra'! Our tables are costly-our pride's warst oʻa’! But gin we gae on, we shall soon get a fa’! And then we'll hear nought but the tyning o't!

Oh-oh! for the time when we sat at our wheel,
And ilka ane gang to the spinning o't!
A canty fire-side, and a cap o' good ale,
Gaed ay sweetly down wi' the winning o't!-
We're strutting !-We're blawing! morn, e’ening

and noon,
We're wishing to see our French friends unco soon?
But gif Bonaparte gangs on as he's done,
We'll neither see end nor beginning o't !
Yet think na, my lads, ye are yet to lie by!-
It's ay right to try a beginning o't;
When folk are sair put, they maun e'en ride and

tie;' Its better than gi' up the spinning o't: Then up wi’ your muskets, and up wi' your might! And up wi’ your signals and fires on ilk height! If ance we get steddy, we yet may get right, And, aiblins, ere lang prie the winning o't!


Air.-Katey, will ye marry Patie.*

O JOHNIE! can you pity ony !
Is your heart yet turn’d to stane?
Can ye calmly hear that Menie
Ne'er will see your face again?
Here I've wander'd wae and weary ;
Here I've fought wi' wind and rain ;
Here I've sworn your ance loo'd deary
Ne'er will see your face again.

Owre lang hae I pin’d in sorrow!
Owre lang hae I sigh'd in vain ;
Hearts, tho' leil, can sometimes borrow
Pride whan treated wi' disdain !
Then tak your smiles and fause deceiving,
Gie them to a heart mair true!

- Mine, alas ! is chang'd wi' grieving Torn by faithless luve and you.

Yet ae word before our parting,
(Since for ever mair we part)
In the midst o'pleasure-starting,
Menie's wrangs will wring your heart !
For Johnie gin ye pity ony,
Gin your hearts no turn'd to stane,
Ye maun rue the cause that Menie
Ne'er will see your face again.

* This is an attempt to show that many of our Seottish airs hitherto accounted lively, are (if sung slow and accompanied with appropriate words) likewise favourable for the tender ox the pathetic.



JAMAICA, 1793.


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