Farewell my Sword! for many a year,
I've worn, and drawn thee without fear,
In Volunteer campaigns;
Yet still unfleshed in ruthless fight,
Thy hilt and blade were always bright,
Unsoiled by sanguine stains.
In Paisley Park, and Glasgow Green,
In Greenock streets, how often seen
In sparkling splendour gay;
But there I brandish thee no more,
(Othello's occupation's o'er,)
Obscured my warlike day.
Oh! Death to all my rising hopes,
No more thy point to Garthland drops,
The blade like diamonds glancing;
While bent to please his martial eye,
With check and spur my steed I try,
And pass his Lordship prancing.
My Sun of Chivalry is set,
Which shone on many a day full wet,
When Colours were presented;
When Lord. Lieutenants bawled aloud.
Ladies harangued, and Bailies bowed,
And Generals complimented.
Go! grace the thigh of Blythswood bold,
A Soldier, excellent and old,
Who stoutly fought at Toùlon;
If Frenchmen knew that in his hand,
He wielded such a desperate brand,
They'd sooner every soul be damned,
Than board their boats at Boùlogne.