8
If Buonaparte land at Fort William,
Auld Europe nae langer sall grane.
I laugh when I think how we’ll gall him,
Wi’ bullet, wi’ steel, and wi’ stane.
Wi’ rocks o’ the Nevis and Gairy,
We’ll rattle him aff frae our shore.
Or loll him asleep 'neath a carniey,
And sing him Lochaber no more.
Stanes and bullets, and a’,
Bullets and stanes, and a’;
We’ll finish the Corsican callan,
Wi’ stanes and bullets, and a’,
The Gordon is guile in a hurry,
The Campbell is steel to the bane,
And Grant, and M’Kenzie, and Murray,
And Cameron will hurkle to nane.
The Stuart is sturdy and wannel,
And sae is M’Leod and M'Kay,
And I, their gudebrother, M'Donald,
Shall ne’er be the last in the fray.
Brogues and brochen, and a’,
Brochen and brogues, and a’,
Sae up wi’ the bonny blue bannet,
The kilt and the feather, and a’.
FINIS.
