How fens te, Dick? There's fearfu' news--
Udsbreed! the French are comin!
There's nought at Carel but parades,
And sec a drum, drum, drummin:
The volunteers and brigadiers
Are aw just mad to meet them;
And England e'en mun hing her head,
If Britons dunnet beat them.

Then there's the Rangers aw in green,
Commanded by brave Howard--
Of aw his noble kin, nit yen
Was iver caw'd a coward;--
They'll pop the Frenchmen off leyke steyfe,
If e'er they meet, I'll bail them:
Ti' sec true Britons at their heeds,
True courage cannot fail them.

Thur French are dispert wicked chiels,
If it be true they tell us,
For where they've been, fwok curse the day
They e'er saw sec sad fellows;
They plant the tree o' liberty,
And hirlings dance around it;
But millions water't wi' their tears,
And bid the de'il confound it.

Our parson says, ''We bang'd them still,
And bang them still we mun, man;
For he desarves a coward's deeth,
That frae them e'er wad run, man:
What feckless courts and worn--out states,
They've conquered just by knavery;
But every volunteer will pruive,
A Briton kens nae slavery.''

I've thowt and thowt, sin I kent ought,
Content's the greatest blissin,--
And he that seizes my bit lan
Desarves a guid soun drissin.
Auld England, though we count thy fau'ts,
For iver we'll defend thee!
To foreign tyrants sud we bow,--
They'll mar, but niver mend thee!