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 May peace and plenty be his lot,

Peace and plenty, peace and plenty,

May peace and plenty be his lot,

And dainties a great store o’m!

May peace and plenty be his lot,

Unstained by any vicious blot!

And may he never want a groat

That's fond of Tullochgorum.

But for the discontented fool,

Who wants to be oppression's tool

May envy gnaw his rotten soul,

And blackest firends devour him!

May dool and sorrow be his chance,

Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,

May dool and sorrow be his chance,

And honest souls abhor him:

May dool and sorrow be his chance,

And a’ the ills that come frae France,

Whae'er he be that winna dance

The reel of Tullochgorum,

Lowland lassie will ye go,

Whare the hills are clad wi' snow,

Whare beneath the icy steep,

The hardy shepherd tends his sheep;

Ill nor wae shall thee betide,

When row'd within my Highland plaid.