And bade him gae tak him a mowe.

Auld Kate laid her claws on poor Stanislaus,

And Poland has bent like a bow:

May the deil in her ass ram a huge prick o brass!

And damn her in hell with a mowe!

But truce with commotions and new-fangled notions,

A bumper I trust you’ll allow:

Here’s George our gude king and Charlotte his queen,

And lang may they tak a gude mowe!

SCOTS WHA HAE
Tune: Hey Tutti Tatie

Scots, wha hae wi Wallace bled,

Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,

Welcome to your gory bed

Or to victorie!

Now’s the day, and now’s the hour:

See the front o battle lour,

See approach proud Edward’s power –

Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave?

Wha can fill a coward’s grave?

Wha sae base as be a slave? –

Let him turn, and flee!

Wha for Scotland’s King and Law

Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,

Freeman stand, or Freeman fa’,

Let him follow me!

By Oppression’s woes and pains,

By your sons in servile chains,

We will drain our dearest veins,

But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!

Tyrants fall in every foe!

Liberty’s in every blow!

Let us do, or die!!!

ODE FOR GENERAL WASHINGTON’S BIRTHDAY

No Spartan tube, no Attic shell,

No lyre Aeolian I awake.

Tis Liberty’s bold note I swell:

Thy harp, Columbia, let me take!

See gathering thousands, while I sing,

A broken chain, exulting, bring

And dash it in a tyrant’s face,

And dare him to his very beard,

And tell him he no more is feared,

No more the despot of Columbia’s race!

A tyrant’s proudest insults braved,

They shout, a People freed! They hail an Empire saved!

Where is man’s godlike form?

Where is that brow erect and bold,

That eye that can unmov’d behold

The wildest rage, the loudest storm

That e’er created fury dared to raise?

Avaunt! thou caitiff, servile, base,

That tremblest at a despot’s nod,

Yet, crouching under the iron rod,

Canst laud the arm that struck th’ insulting blow!

Art thou of man’s imperial line?

Dost boast that countenance divine?

Each skulking feature answers: No!

But come, ye sons of Liberty,

Columbia’s offspring, brave as free,

In danger’s hour still flaming in the van,

Ye know, and dare maintain, The Royalty of Man!

Alfred, on thy starry throne

Surrounded by the tuneful choir,

The Bards that erst have struck the patriot lyre,

And rous’d the freeborn Briton’s soul of fire,

No more thy England own!

Dare injured nations form the great design

To make detested tyrants bleed?

Thy England execrates the glorious deed!

Beneath her hostile banners waving,

Every pang of honour braving,

England in thunder calls: ‘the tyrant’s cause is mine!’

That hour accurst how did the fiends rejoice,

And Hell thro all her confines raise the exulting voice!

That hour which saw the generous English name

Link’t with such damned deeds of everlasting shame!

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among,