6
Come then, my faithfu sodger lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dear y.
For gold the merchant plows the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor,
But glory is the soldier's prize
The soger’s wealth is honour.
The brave por sodger be'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger;
Remember, he's his country's stay,
In day and hour of danger.
GOW'S FAREWEEL TO WHISKY.
You've surely heard o' famous Neil,
The man that played the fiddle weel;
I wat he was a canty chiel,
And dearly lo'ed the Whisky. O.
And ay since hs wore tartan trews,
He dearly lo'ed the Athole brose,
And wae was he you may suppose,
To play fareweel to Whisky, o.
Alake! quoth Neil I'm frail an' auld,
And find my bluid grow unco cauld,
I think 'twad make me blythe and bauld,
A wee drap Highland Whisky, O.
