Page:Four songs (16).pdf/4

 O Symon, the Frenchmen are !
 * Gae look man, an' slip'on your shoon ;

Our signals I see them extendit,
 * Like red-risen blaze o' the moon.

What plague, the French landit ! quo' Symon,
 * An' clash gaed his pipe to the wa',

Faith, then there's be loadin and primin,
 * Quo' he, if they're landit ava.

Our youngest son's in the militia,
 * Our eldest grandson's volunteer :

O' the French to be fu' o' the flesh o',
 * I too in the ranks shall appear.

His waistcoat pouch he fill'd wi'.
 * An' bang'd down his rusty auld gun,

His bullets he put in the other,
 * That he for the purpose had run.

Then humpled he out in a hurry,
 * While Janet his courage bewails,

An' cried out, dear Symon, be wary,
 * An' teughly she hang by his tails.

Let be wi' your kindness, quo' Symon,
 * Nor vex me wi' tears an' your cares,

For now to be rul'd by a woman,
 * Nae laurels shall crown my grey hairs.