5
He's pu'd the rose o' English lowns,
An' brak the harp o' Irish clowns,
But our thristle will jag his thumbs,
The wee wee German lairdie,
Come up amang the Highland hills,
Thou wee wee German lairdie;
And see how Charlie's lang kail thrive,
He dibblet in his yardie.
An' if a stock ye daur to pu',
Or haud the yoking of a pleugh,
We'll break yere sceptre owre yere mou,
Thou wee bit German lairdie.
Our hills are steep, our glens are deep,
Nae fitting for a yardie;
An' our norlan' thristles winna pu',
Thou wee wee German lairdie!
An' we've the trenching blades o wier,
Wad lib ye o' yere German gear,
An' pass ye 'neath the claymore's shear,
Thou feckless German lairdie.
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.
Ye mariners of England,
Who guard our native seas,
Who for these thousand years have bray'd
The battle and the breeze;
