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 4 I fear my Lord Panmure is slain, Or fallen in Whiggish hands, man: Now wad ye sing this double fight, Some fell for wrang and some for right; But monie bade the world gude night; Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, By red claymores, and muskets' knell, Wi’ dying yeiLthe tories fell, And whigs to hell did flee, man.

BANNOCKS o’ BARLEY.

Bannocks o’ bear-meal, bannocks o’ barley, Here’s to the Highlandman’s bannocks of barley. Wha in a brulzie will first cry ‘ a parley?’— Never the lads wi’ the bannocks o’ barley. Bannocks of bear-meal, bannoJcs q’ barley, Here’s to the Highlandman’s bannocks o’ barley.

Wha drew the gude claymore for Charlie? Wha cow’d the lowns o’ England rarely? An’ claw’d their backs at Falkirk fairly? Wha but the lads wi’ the bannocks o’ barley. Bannocks, &c. Wha, when hope was blasted fairly, Stood in ruin wi’bonnie Prince Charlie?