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 When Britain commanded her troops to advance,

On the mountains o' Spain or the valleys o' France,

To quell the oppressor or succour the weak,

The plaid o' the foremost smel'd strong o' Peat-reek.

But sadly we wander o'er solitudes wide,

Where Scotland ance nourished the sons o' her pride;

There roam flocks o' bleaters an' deer fat and sleek,

But cauld's the hearth-stane that sent up the Peat-reek.

Oh, when will our Lairds clear the land o' their game,

An' a' their deer-forests an' sheep-walks reclaim,

Nor force the young peasant his fortune to seek,

Sae far frae his hame an' its blue Peat-reek!

There dwalls a man in our toun,

In our toun, in our toun,

There dwalls a man in our toun

Wha lo'es the barleybree.

Whan he gaes to the chainge-house,

Wi' neibour chiels to hae a bouse,

Oh, vow, but he is wondrous crouse

Whan filled wi' barleybree!

But wae's me for his wife and weans,

His wife an' weans, his wife an' weans,

A broken head an' sair banes

They a' maun sairly dree;

His elbucks through his sleeves are seen,

His taes are glowrin' through his sheen;

While bloated cheeks and blawart een

Spring frae the barleybree