Page:Songs of bonnie Scotland.pdf/12

 12 We'll break your sceptre o'er your mou', Thou wee bit German lairdie. Our hills are steep, our glens are deep, Nae fitting for a yardie; And our Norland thistles winna pu', Thou wee bit German lairdie; And we've the trenching blades o weir, Wad prune ye o' your German gear- We'll pass ye 'neath the claymore's shear, Thou feckless German lairdie! Auld Scotland, thou'rt ower cauld a hole For nursin' siccan vermin; But the very dougs o' England's court, They bark and howl in German. Then keep thy dibble in thy ain hand, Thy spade but and thy yardie; For wha the deil ha'e we gotten for a king But a wee, wee German lairdie?

THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE. 'Twas even-dewy fields were green, On ilka blade the pearls hang; The zephyr wanton'd round the bean, And bore its fragrant sweets alang. In ev'ry glen the mavis sang; All nature list ning seem'd the while Except where greenwood echoes rang, Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. With careless step I onward stray'd, My heart rejoiced in nature's joy; When, musing in a lonely glade, A maiden fair I chanced to spy;