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Tho' at present, dear comrads in jail I’m confin’d,
Yet to go to the south I am fully design’d;
I wont mind my lasses nor sweethearts ava,
That would stop from going to fair Gallowa’.
But alas for poor Smugglers, their spirits are broke,
And I have got wearied in bearing the yoke;
But I hope to live happy, as happy can be,
And make a drap Whisky in the south countrie.
Farewel my sweet comrads, I bid you adieu!
Your hearts they are soft and they always were kind,
But as for informers I don’t care a flea:
So I wish a safe landing in the south countrie.
THE SMUGGLERS’ ESCAPE FROM
Air—Miller o' Dron.
Come all you prisoners in this jail,
rejoice both late and airly,
Since Duncan he has gi’en the bag
to a’ the jailors fairly.
They brought him up from room to room,
to number three by chance;
But Providence to him was kind,
and brought him down at once.