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8
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Unstain'd by ony vicious blot;
And may he never want a groat
That's fond of Tullochgorum.
But for the discontented fool,
Who wants to be oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul,
And blackest fiends devour him!
May dole and sorrow be his chance
Dole and sorrow,
Dole and sorrow,
May dole and sorrow be his chance
And honest souls abhor him:
May dole and sorrow be his chance
And a' the ills that come frae France
Whae'er he be, that winna dance
The reel of Tullochgorum.
Macarters, Printers, Ayr.
