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 Friends of the world, restore your swords to man

Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van;

Yet for Samatia's tears of blood atone,

And make her arm puissant as your own.

Oh, once again to Freedom's cause return,

The Patriot Tell—the Bruce of Bannockburn.

A weaver, unto Paisley bound,

Cries 'Coachman, coachman tarry,

And I will gi'e you eighteenpence,

Me on the road to carry.'

Now wha be ye the road wad pass,

This dreadfu' snawy weather?

'Oh! I'm a weaver frae the 'Shaws—

My wab is on my shouther.'

And fast ahint your coach I've ran,

Twa miles and mair thegither,

And if ye dinna tak me on

The snaw soon will me smother.

Outspake the hardy coachman then—

'Get ye upon the dicky;

It is na for your eighteenpence,

But out o' love I tak ye;

'And by my word, my weaver lad'

In faith, we mauna tarry;

For see, the snaw is very deep,'

I'll drive, and that wi' fury.'

By this the snaw storm did increase

The Leddies they were shriekin'

The snaw-flakes cam and filled their mouths

When they attempted speaking.