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FAREWELL, ye dungeons dark and strong,
The wretch's destinie!
Macpherson's time will not be long

On yonder gallows tree.


Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
Sae dauntingly gaed he;

He play'd a spring and danc'd it round,
Below the gallows tree.

Oh, what is death but parting breath?
On monie a bloody plain

I've dar'd his face, and in this place
I scorn him yet again!
Sae rantingly, &c.

Untie these bands from off my hands,
And bring to me my sword;
And there's no man in all Scotland,
But I'll brave him at a word.
Sae rantingly, &c.


I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife
I die by treacherie:

It burns my heart I must depart
And not avengèd be.

Sae rantingly, &c.

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright,
And all beneath the sky!

May coward shame disdain his name,
The wretch that dares not die!
Sae rantingly, &c.



To its ain Tune

Scors, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory!

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lower;
See approach proud Edward's power,
Chains and slavery!

Wha will be a traitor knave ?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?

Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa',
Let him on wi' me!

By oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!

Let us do- or die!

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 to Solway,
Ere we permit a foreign foe
On British ground to rally!
Fal de ral, &c.

O let us not like snarling tykes
In wrangling be divided;
Till, slap, come in an unco loon
And wi' a rung decide it.
Be Britain still to Britain true,
Amang oursels united;
For never but by British hands
Maun British wrangs be righted!
Fal de ral, &c.

The kettle o' the kirk and state,
Perhaps a clout may fail in't;
But deil a foreign tinkler loon
Shall ever ca' a nail in't.
Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought,
And wha wad dare to spoil it;
By heaven, the sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil it!

Fal de ral, &c.

The wretch that wad a tyrant own,

And the wretch his true-born brother, Who would set the mob aboon the throne, May they be damn'd together!

Who will not sing, "God save the King,” Shall hang as high's the steeple;

But while we sing, "God save the King," We'll ne'er forget the People!


Is there, for honest poverty,

That hangs his head, an' a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that;
For a' that, an' a' that,

Our toils obscure, an' a' that;
The rank is but the guinea stamp;
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden-gray, an' a' that;

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.

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