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Dempster, a true blue Scot, I'se warran, The aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran, And that glib-gabbet Highland baron, The Laird o' Grahame, And ane, a chap that's d-n'd auldfarran, Dundas his name.
Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie, True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay, And Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie, And monie ithers, Wham auld Demosthenes or Tully Might own for brithers.
Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle, To get auld Scotland back her kettle, Or faith I'll wad my new pleugh-pettie, You'll see't or lang, She'll teach you, wi' a reckin whittle, Anither sang.
This while she's been in crankous mood, Her lost Militia fir'd her blude, (Deil na they never mair do gude, Play'd her that pliskic,) And now she's like to rin red-wud About her Whisky.
And, L-d, if ance they pit her til't, Her tartan petticoat, she'll kilt, And durk and pistol at her belt; She tak the streets, And rin her little to the hilt I' the first she meets?
