Waverley; Or, 'Tis Sixty Years Since. Lang Andrew

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          Ev’n both at Preston and Falkirk,

          That fatal night ere it grew mirk,

          Piercing the wounded with their durk,

                        Caused many cry!

          Such pity’s shown from Savage and Turk

                        As peace to die.

          A woe be to such hot zeal,

          To smite the wounded on the fiell!

          It’s just they got such groats in kail,

                        Who do the same.

          It only teaches crueltys real

                        To them again.

          I’ve seen the men call’d Highland rogues,

          With Lowland men make shangs a brogs,

          Sup kail and brose, and fling the cogs

                        Out at the door,

          Take cocks, hens, sheep, and hogs,

                        And pay nought for.

          I saw a Highlander, ‘t was right drole,

          With a string of puddings hung on a pole,

          Whip’d o’er his shoulder, skipped like a fole,

                              Caus’d Maggy bann,

          Lap o’er the midden and midden-hole,

                              And aff he ran.

          When check’d for this, they’d often tell ye,

          ‘Indeed her nainsell’s a tume belly;

          You’ll no gie’t wanting bought, nor sell me;

                              Hersell will hae’t;

          Go tell King Shorge, and Shordy’s Willie,

                              I’ll hae a meat.’

          I saw the soldiers at Linton-brig,

          Because the man was not a Whig,

          Of meat and drink leave not a skig,

                              Within his door;

          They burnt his very hat and wig,

                              And thump’d him sore.

          And through the Highlands they were so rude,

          As leave them neither clothes nor food,

          Then burnt their houses to conclude;

                              ‘T was tit for tat.

          How can her nainsell e’er be good,

                              To think on that?

          And after all, O, shame and grief!

          To use some worse than murd’ring thief,

          Their very gentleman and chief,

                              Unhumanly!

          Like Popish tortures, I believe,

                              Such cruelty.

          Ev’n what was act on open stage

          At Carlisle, in the hottest rage,

          When mercy was clapt in a cage,

                              And pity dead,

          Such cruelty approv’d by every age,

                              I shook my head.

          So many to curse, so few to pray,

          And some aloud huzza did cry;

          They cursed the rebel Scots that day,

                              As they’d been nowt

          Brought up for slaughter, as that way

                              Too many rowt.

          Therefore, alas! dear countrymen,

          O never do the like again,

          To thirst for vengeance, never ben’

                              Your gun nor pa’,

          But with the English e’en borrow and len’,

                              Let anger fa’.

          Their boasts and bullying, not worth a louse,

          As our King’s the best about the house.

          ‘T is ay good to be sober and douce,

                              To live in peace;

          For many, I see, for being o’er crouse,

                              Gets broken face.