O Lord, since we have feasted thus,
     Which we so little merit,
     Let Meg now take away the flesh,
     And Jock bring in the spirit!  Amen.

Impromptu On General Dumourier’s Desertion From The French Republican Army

     You’re welcome to Despots, Dumourier;
     You’re welcome to Despots, Dumourier: 
     How does Dampiere do? 
     Ay, and Bournonville too? 
     Why did they not come along with you, Dumourier?

     I will fight France with you, Dumourier;
     I will fight France with you, Dumourier;
     I will fight France with you,
     I will take my chance with you;
     By my soul, I’ll dance with you, Dumourier.

     Then let us fight about, Dumourier;
     Then let us fight about, Dumourier;
     Then let us fight about,
     Till Freedom’s spark be out,
     Then we’ll be damn’d, no doubt, Dumourier.

The Last Time I Came O’er The Moor

     The last time I came o’er the moor,
     And left Maria’s dwelling,
     What throes, what tortures passing cure,
     Were in my bosom swelling: 
     Condemn’d to see my rival’s reign,
     While I in secret languish;
     To feel a fire in every vein,
     Yet dare not speak my anguish.

     Love’s veriest wretch, despairing, I
     Fain, fain, my crime would cover;
     Th’ unweeting groan, the bursting sigh,
     Betray the guilty lover. 
     I know my doom must be despair,
     Thou wilt nor canst relieve me;
     But oh, Maria, hear my prayer,
     For Pity’s sake forgive me!

     The music of thy tongue I heard,
     Nor wist while it enslav’d me;
     I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear’d,
     Till fear no more had sav’d me: 
     The unwary sailor thus, aghast,
     The wheeling torrent viewing,
     ’Mid circling horrors yields at last
     To overwhelming ruin.

Logan Braes

     Tune—­“Logan Water.”

     O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide,
     That day I was my Willie’s bride,
     And years sin syne hae o’er us run,
     Like Logan to the simmer sun: 
     But now thy flowery banks appear
     Like drumlie Winter, dark and drear,
     While my dear lad maun face his faes,
     Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

     Again the merry month of May
     Has made our hills and valleys gay;
     The birds rejoice in leafy bowers,
     The bees hum round the breathing flowers;
     Blythe Morning lifts his rosy eye,
     And Evening’s tears are tears o’ joy: 
     My soul, delightless a’ surveys,
     While Willie’s far frae Logan braes.