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Ee ilke a Briton did advance,
And took Quebec in spite of France.
Mourn, Britain, mourn,
Thy choiest hero, wolfe is slain.
This matchless hero's valour great,
Led him abroad, which proved his fate,
He like a Briton ne'er would yield
But smil'd in Death, in conquer’d field
Mourn, Britain mourn,
Thy choicest hero, Wolf is slain.
Now his dear mother she is left,
Of her dear son the is bereft
And these few lines she did inclose,
He boldly died for Britain’s cause,
Mourn, Britain mourn.
Thy choicest hero, Wolfe is slain.
WHAT AILS THE LASSES AT ME
I am a young bachelor winsome,
A farmer by rank and degree,
And few l see gang out ufair handsome,
To kirk or to market than me
I've outright, and insight, and credit,
