'Tis hard to thole, for gallant soul

His frostit thumbs to blaw, Geordie.

Up an' rin awa', Geordie, &c.

Prince Charlie Stuart's ta'en the road,
As fast as he can ca', Geordie,
The drones to drive frae out the hive,
An' banish foreign law, Geordie.
He's o'er the Mersey, horse an' foot,

An' braid claymores an' a', Geordie;
An' awsome forks, an' Highland durks,
An' thae's the warst of a', Geordie..

Up an' rin awa', Geordie, &c.

I canna tell, ye ken yoursell,

Geordie;

Your faith, an' trust, an' a',

But 'tis o'er true your cause looks blue,

'Tis best to pack awa', Geordie.

An' ye maun tak your foreign bike,

Your Turks, an' queans, an' a', Geordie,

To pluff an' trig your braw new wig,
An' your daft pow to claw, Geordie.

Up an' rin awa', Geordie, &c.

L

There's ae thing I had maist forgot,

Perhaps there may be twa, Geordie: Indite us back, when ye gang hame,

How they received you a', Geordie. An' tell us how the langkail thrive,

An' how the turnips raw,

Geordie ;

An' how the seybos an' the leeks

Are brairding through the snaw, Geordie.

Up an' rin awa', Geordie, &c.

That Hanover's a dainty place,

It suits you to a straw, Geordie ;
Where ane may tame a buxom dame,
An' chain her to a wa', Geordie.
An' there a man may burn his cap,
His hat, an' wig, an' a', Geordie;
They're a' sae daft, your scanty wits
Will ne'er be miss'd ava, Geordie.

Up an' rin awa', Geordie, &c.

You've lost the land o' cakes an' weir,

Auld Caledonia, Geordie ;

Where fient a stand in a' the land,
Your Whigs can mak ava, Geordie.
Then tak leg-bail, an' fare-ye-weel,

Your motley group an' a', Geordie;
There's mony a ane has rued the day
That ye cam here ava, Geordie.
Up an' rin awa', Geordie,

Up an' rin awa', Geordie,

For fient a stand in all England

Your Whigs dare mak ava, Geordie!

MY LOVE'S BONNY

Is sung by the country people to a fine ballad air, but has never been set to music. It is introduced in character in one of my printed dramas, but I have forgot which, and cannot find it.

My love's bonny as bonny can be,

My love's blithe as the bird on the tree;
But I like my bonny lass, an' she loes me,
An' we'll meet by our bower in the morning.
O, how I will cling unto my love's side,
And I will kiss my bonny, bonny bride;

And I'll whisper a vow, whatever betide,
To my little flower in the morning.

Her breath is as sweet as the fragrant shower
Of dew that is blawn frae the rowan-tree flower;
Oh! never were the sweets of vernal bower,

Like my love's cheek in the morning.

Her eye is the blue-bell of the spring, Her hair is the blackbird's bonny wing; To her dear side, oh! how I'll cling,

On our greenwood walk in the morning.