4
I wat, hae gart you change your sang,
The sang of Victory.
Ye little dream'd, that at Moscow
The brave undaunted Kutusow,
Would lay your hard-won honours low,
An’ force you back to flee.
Tu' bauld ye vow’d in that fam'd place,
Ye wad to Sandy dictate peace;
Yet hame-ward sneaking in disgrace.
Upon the road are ye:
To it through seas o’ blude you strade.
Back through the same you now maun wade,
While mony a daring Cossack’s blade,
Like lightning meets your e’e.
I trow ye’ve led the troops o' France,
Aye, an’ yoursel, a bonny dance;
That ye’ll get hame—Man for your chance
Ae plack I wadna gie;
For round your ha’f-starv’d shiv'ring slaves,
The Russian flag triumphant waves;
Your deeds o’ bluid for vengeance craves,
An’ vengeance ye maun dree.
But shou’d ye yet frae ’mang them slide,
Ye’ve met enough to lay your pride;
O’er Europe a’ ye thought to ride
When ye began this plea.
