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III

20

II
Now's the day, and now's the hour: Wi' monie a vow and lock'd embrace
See the front o' battle lour,

Our parting was fu' tender;
See approach proud Edward's power — And, pledging aft to meet again,
Chains and slaverie !

We tore oursels asunder.

But 0, fell Death's untimely frost,
III

That nipt my flower sae early!
Wha will be a traitor knave ?

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, Wha can fill a coward's grave ?

10

That wraps my Highland Mary!
Wha sae base as be a slave ? -
Let him turn, and flee!

IV
O, pale, pale now, those rosy lips

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly;
Wha for Scotland's King and Law And clos’d for ay, the sparkling glance
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,

That dwalt on me sae kindly;
Freeman stand or freeman fa',

And mouldering now in silent dust
Let him follow me!

That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core

Shall live my Highland Mary.
By Oppression's woes and pains,
By your sons in servile chains,
We will drain our dearest veins
But they shall be free! 20 |

IS THERE FOR HONEST

POVERTY

IV

30

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10

Ye banks and braes and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie!
There Summer first unfald her robes,

And there the langest tarry !
For there I took the last fareweel

O’my sweet Highland Mary !

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an'a' that ?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their

wine —
A man 's a man for a' that.
For a' that, an'a' tbat,

Their tinsel show, an' a' that,
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

III
Ye see yon birkie ca'd “a lord,"

Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' tbat?
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,

He's but a cuif for a' that.
For a' that, an'a' that,

His ribband, star, an' a' that,
The man o' independent mind,

He looks an' laughs at a' that.

II

How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk,

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 10 As underneath their fragrant shade

I clasp'd her to my bosom! The golden hours on angel wings

Flew o'er me and my dearie: For dear to me as light and life

Was my sweet Highland Mary.

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He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste,

O MARY, at thy window be! He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down,

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour. And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist,

Those smiles and glances let me see, Her heart was tint, ber peace was stown! | That make the miser's treasure poor.

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