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 bumper, 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

Poortith Cauld And Restless Love

     Tune—­“Cauld Kail in Aberdeen.”

     O poortith cauld, and restless love,
     Ye wrack my peace between ye;
     Yet poortith 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.