Page:Four songs (16).pdf/4

O Symon, the Frenchmen are landit !
Gae look man, an' slip'on your shoon ;
Our signals I see them extendit,
Like red-risen blaze o' the moon.

What plague, the French landit ! quo' Symon,
An' clash gaed his pipe to the wa',
Faith, then there's be loadin and primin,
Quo' he, if they're landit ava.

Our youngest son's in the militia,
Our eldest grandson's volunteer :
O' the French to be fu' o' the flesh o',
I too in the ranks shall appear.

His waistcoat pouch he fill'd wi' pouther.
An' bang'd down his rusty auld gun,
His bullets he put in the other,
That he for the purpose had run.

Then humpled he out in a hurry,
While Janet his courage bewails,
An' cried out, dear Symon, be wary,
An' teughly she hang by his tails.

Let be wi' your kindness, quo' Symon,
Nor vex me wi' tears an' your cares,
For now to be rul'd by a woman,
Nae laurels shall crown my grey hairs.