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We'll drink to Athole's gallant band,

To Cluny of the Glen, joe,
To Donald Blue, and Appin true,

And red Clan-Ranald's men, joe; And cry our news our gallant news,

That Caril disna ken, joe,
Our gallant news of tartan trews,

And red Clan-Ranald's men, joe.


It is a pity that we cannot father this on the ideal “ Dwomony” altogether. However, it is not just so bad when considered that it is an answer to a Whig song of 1746, beginning," Up an' rin awa', Charlie,” &c.

UP an' rin awa', Geordie,
Up an' rin awa', Geordie,

For feint a stand in Cumberland

Your troops can mak ava, Geordie.
Your bauld militia are in qualms,

In ague fits an'a', Geordie,
And auntie Wade, wi' pick an’ spade,
Is delving through the snaw, Geordie.

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

The lads o' Westmoreland came up,

An' wow but they were braw, Geordie,
But took the spavie in their houghs,

An' limpit fast awa', Geordie.

O had ye seen them at their posts,

Wi' backs against the wa’, Geordie, Ye wad hae thought-It matters notFlee over seas awa', Geordie.

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

These Highland dogs, wi' hose an' brogs,

They dree nae cauld at a', Geordie; Their hides are tann'd like Kendal bend,

An' proof to frost an' snaw, Geordie. They dive like moudies in the yird,

Like squirrels mount a wa', Geordie; An' auld Carlisle, baith tower an' pile, Has got a waesome fa', Geordie.

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

Brave Sir John Pennington is fled,

An' Doctor Waugh an'a', Geordie; And Humphrey Stenhouse he is lost,

And Aeron-bank's but raw, Geordie. And Andrew Pattison's laid bye, The prince of provosts a', Geordie ;

'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,

Your faith, an' trust, an' a', Geordie; 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.


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;

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