Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch,
The Coalition.

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue :
She's just a devil wi' a rung;

An if she promise auld or young

To tak their part,

Though by the neck she should be strung,
She'll no desert.

An' now ye chosen Five-and-Forty,
May still your Mither's heart support ye;
Then, though a Minister grow dorty,

An' kick your place,

Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty,
Before his face.

God bless your Honors a' your days,
Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise,
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes

That haunt St. Jamie's!

Your humble poet sings an' prays

While Rab his name is.

POSTSCRIPT.

Let half-starved slaves, in warmer skies,
See future wines, rich clustering, rise;
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,

But blythe and frisky,

She eyes her free-born, martial boys,

Tak aff their Whisky.

What though their Phoebus kinder warms, While fragrance blooms and beauty charms! When wretches range, in famish'd swarms,

The scented groves,

Or hounded forth, dishonour arms

In hungry droves.

Their gun's a burden on their shouther;
They downa bide the stink o' powther;
Their bauldest thought's a hankering swither
To stan' or rin,

Till skelp-a shot-they're aff, a' throwther,
To save their skin.

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill,
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,
Say, such is royal George's will,

An' there's the foe,

He has nae thought but how to kill

Twa at a blow.

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him: Death comes, wi' fearless eyes he sees him; Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him :

An' when he fa's,

His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him

In faint huzzas.

Sages their solemn een may steek,
An' raise a philosophic reek,

An' physically causes seek,

In clime and season;

But tell me Whisky's name in Greek,

I'll tell the reason.

Scotland, my auld, respected Mither,
Though whiles ye moistify your leather,
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather,

Ye time your dam;

(Freedom and Whisky gang thegither!)

Tak aff your dram!

SONGS.

SONG OF DEATH.

Scene,-A field of battle-time of the day, evening— the wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following song.

TUNE-Oran an Aoig.

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, Now gay with the bright setting sun;

Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear, tender ties,
Our race of existence is run!

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe,
Go, frighten the coward and slave;

Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know,
No terrors hast thou to the brave!

Thou strik'st the poor peasant he sinks in the dark,
Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name :

Thou strik'st the young hero-a glorious mark!
He falls in the blaze of his fame!

In the field of proud honour-our swords in our hands,
Our king and our country to save-
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands,
O! who would not rest with the brave!

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY AT BANNOCKBURN.

TUNE-Lewie Gordon.

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

Or to glorious victorie.

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lower;

See approach proud Edward's power—
Edward! chains and slaverie!

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

Traitor! coward! turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa'?
Caledonian! 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-shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!

Forward! let us do, or die!

A FRAGMENT.

TUNE-Green Grow the Rashes, O!

CHORUS.

Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e'er I spent, Were spent amang the lasses, O! There's nought but care on every han', In every hour that passes, Q; What signifies the life o' man, An' 'twerna for the lasses, O?

Green grow, &c.

F

The warly race may riches chase,
An' riches still may fly them, O;
An' though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.
Green grow, &c.

But gie me a cannie hour at e'en,
My arms about my dearie, O;
An' warly cares, an' warly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!

Green grow, &c.

For you sae douse, ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses, 0:
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,

He dearly loved the lasses, O.

Green grow, &c.

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, 0:
Her 'prentice han' she tried on man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.

TUNE-Jockey's Grey Breeks.

Again rejoicing nature sees

Her robe assume its vernal hues,
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steep'd in morning dews.

CHORUS

And maun I still on Menie + doat,

And bear the scorn that's in her ee?

* This chorus is part of a song composed by a gentleman in Edinburgh, a particular friend of the author. + Menie is the common abbreviation of Mariamne.