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THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS.
Tune, Push about the Jorum.'
Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ?
Then let the loons beware, Sir, There's wooden walls upon our seas,
And volunteers on shore, Sir. The Nith shall run to Corsincon,
And Criffel sink in Solway, Ere we permit a foreign foe On British ground to rally!
Full de rall, &c.
O let us not like snarling tykes
In wrangling be divided ;
And wi' a rung decide it.
Amang oursels united ;
Fall, de rall, &c.
The kettle o' the kirk and state,
Perhaps a claut may fail in't; But deil a foreigo tinkler loun
Shall ever ca' a nail in't.
Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought,
And wha wad dare to spoil it;
Fall de rall, &c.
The wretch that wad a tyrant own,
And the wretch his true-born brother,
May they be damned together!
Shall hang as high's the steeple ;
We'll ne'er forget the People.
ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF EXCISE,
FRIEND of the poet, tried and leal,
Wi a' his witches
In my poor pouches.
I modestly fu' fain wad hint it,
It would be kind;
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted,
I'd bear't in mind.
So may the auld year gang out moaning
To thee and thine ;
The hale design.
And sair me sheuk;
And turn'd a neuk.
But by that health, I've got a share o't,
A tentier way :
For ance and aye.
Sent to a gentleman whom he had offended.
The friend whom wild from wisdom's way,
The fumes of wine infuriate send ; (Not moony madness more astray ;)
Who but deplores that hapless friend?
Mine was the’ insensate frenzied part,
Ah why should I such scenes outlive! Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!
'Tis thine to pity and forgive.
POEM ON LIFE.
ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER, DUMFRIES, 1796.
My honour'd colonel, deep I feel
The steep Parnassus,
And potion glasses.
O what a canty warld were it;
As they deserve:
Syne wha wad starve?)
Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her,
I've found her still,
'Tween good and ill.
Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Wi’ felon ire;
He's off like fire.
Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair,
To put us daft;
O'hell's damn'd waft.
Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by,
And hellish pleasure ;
Thy sicker treasure.
Soon heels o'er gowdie! in he gangs,
And murdering wrestle,
A gibbet's tassel.
But lest you think I am uncivil,
1 quat my pen: The Lord preserve us frae the devil!