Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/162

144 John Cole, wi' his rifle, may beat us, I trow;

William Foster now sticks to his arrow and bow;

Let them come frae the Beaumont and Tweed to the Till,

We'll match them for something at Auld Heaton Mill:

Ay, sirs, look and see—a' these medals were ta'en,

By thrawing the hammer and putting the stane.

Etal, Crookham, and Ford, have na seen sic a day,

Since the trumpet's blast raised them for Flodden's affray,

But a bard of renown has that battle-field sung;

And I tell o' the games in my ain mother tongue:

We like sport but nae fighting,—just let us alane,

When thrawing the hammer and putting the stane.

The feuds on the Borders nae langer run fierce;

Northumberland kindly shakes hands wi' the Merse:

Baith sides o' the Tweed—and a cheer for the games,

And good health to the victors, whatever their claims,

And lang may the Border lads flourish and reign,

At thrawing the hammer and putting the stane.