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May peace and plenty be his lot,
Peace and plenty,
Peace and plenty,
May peace and plenty be his lot,
And dainties a great ſtore o' them.
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Unſtain'd by any vicious ſpot,
And may he never want a groat,
That's fond of Tullochgorum.
But for your ſullen frumpiſh fool,
That loves to be oppreſſion's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten ſoul,
And diſcontent devour him,
May dool and ſorrow be his chance,
Dool and ſorrow,
Dool and ſorrow,
May dool and ſorrow be his chance,
And no man to care for him.
May dool and ſorrow be his chance,
Wi' a' the ills that come frae France,
Whoe'er he be that winna dance
The reel of Tullochgorum.
READY MONEY and no TRUST.
ONCE on a time I walked forth,
much like unto a ranger;
I ſaid unto myſelf alone,
I thought I was no ſtranger:
