The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr,
     An’ Clavers gat a clankie, O;
     Or I had fed an Athole gled,
     On the Braes o’ Killiecrankie, O.
     An ye had been, &c.

Awa’ Whigs, Awa’

     Chorus.—­Awa’ Whigs, awa’! 
     Awa’ Whigs, awa’! 
     Ye’re but a pack o’ traitor louns,
     Ye’ll do nae gude at a’.

     Our thrissles flourish’d fresh and fair,
     And bonie bloom’d our roses;
     But Whigs cam’ like a frost in June,
     An’ wither’d a’ our posies. 
     Awa’ Whigs, &c.

     Our ancient crown’s fa’en in the dust—­
     Deil blin’ them wi’ the stoure o’t! 
     An’ write their names in his black beuk,
     Wha gae the Whigs the power o’t. 
     Awa’ Whigs, &c.

     Our sad decay in church and state
     Surpasses my descriving: 
     The Whigs cam’ o’er us for a curse,
     An’ we hae done wi’ thriving. 
     Awa’ Whigs, &c.

     Grim vengeance lang has taen a nap,
     But we may see him wauken: 
     Gude help the day when royal heads
     Are hunted like a maukin! 
     Awa’ Whigs, &c.

A Waukrife Minnie

     Whare are you gaun, my bonie lass,
     Whare are you gaun, my hinnie? 
     She answered me right saucilie,
     “An errand for my minnie.”

     O whare live ye, my bonie lass,
     O whare live ye, my hinnie? 
     “By yon burnside, gin ye maun ken,
     In a wee house wi’ my minnie.”

     But I foor up the glen at e’en. 
     To see my bonie lassie;
     And lang before the grey morn cam,
     She was na hauf sae saucie.

     O weary fa’ the waukrife cock,
     And the foumart lay his crawin! 
     He wauken’d the auld wife frae her sleep,
     A wee blink or the dawin.

     An angry wife I wat she raise,
     And o’er the bed she brocht her;
     And wi’ a meikle hazel rung
     She made her a weel-pay’d dochter.

     O fare thee weel, my bonie lass,
     O fare thee well, my hinnie! 
     Thou art a gay an’ a bonnie lass,
     But thou has a waukrife minnie.

The Captive Ribband

     Tune—­“Robaidh dona gorach.”

     Dear Myra, the captive ribband’s mine,
     ’Twas all my faithful love could gain;
     And would you ask me to resign
     The sole reward that crowns my pain?

     Go, bid the hero who has run
     Thro’ fields of death to gather fame,
     Go, bid him lay his laurels down,
     And all his well-earn’d praise disclaim.

     The ribband shall its freedom lose—­
     Lose all the bliss it had with you,
     And share the fate I would impose
     On thee, wert thou my captive too.

     It shall upon my bosom live,
     Or clasp me in a close embrace;
     And at its fortune if you grieve,
     Retrieve its doom, and take its place.