Now gentle readers, I have let you ken,
My very thoughts, from heart and pen,
’Tis needless now for to conten,
Or yet controule,
For there’s not a word o’t I can men’,
So ye must thole.
For on both sides, some were not good,
I saw them murd’ring in cold blood,
Not th’ gentlemen, but wild and rude,
The baser sort,
Who to the wounded had no mood,
But murd’ring sport.
Ev’n both at Preston and Falkirk,
That fatal night ere it grew mirk,
Piercing the wounded with their durk,
Caus’d many cry,
Such pity’s shown from Savage and Turk,
As peace to die.
A woe be to such a hot zeal,
To smite the wounded on the fiel’,
It’s just they get such groats in kail,
Who do the same,
It only teaches cruelty’s real,
To them again.
I’ve seen the men call’d Highland Rogues,
With Lowland men, make shange a brogs,
Sup kail and brose, and fling the cogs
Out at the door,
Take cocks, hens, sheep and hogs,
And pay nought for.
I see’d a Highlander, ’twas right drole,
With a string of puddings, hung on a pole,
Whip’d o’er his shoulder, skipp’d like a fole,
Caus’d Maggy bann,
Lap o’er the midden and midden-hole,
And aff he ran.
When check’d for this, they’d often tell ye,
Indeed her nainsel’s a tume belly.
You’ll no gi’et wanting bought, nor sell me,
Hersel will haet,
Go tell King Shorge, and Shordy’s Willie,
I’ll hae a meat.
I see’d the soldiers at Linton-brig,
Because the man was not a Whig,
Of meat and drink, leave not a skig
Within his door,
They burnt his very hat and wig,
And thumpt him sore.
And thro’ the Highlands they were so rude,
As leave them neither clothes nor food,
Then burnt their houses to conclude,
’Twas tit for tat,
How can her nainsel’ ere be good,
To think on that.
And after all, O shame and grief,
To use some worse than murd’ring thief,
Their very gentlemen and chief,
Unhumanly,
Like Popish tortures, I belief,
Such cruelty.
Ev’n what was act on open stage,
At Carlisle in the hottest rage,
When mercy was clapt in a cage,
And pity dead,
Such cru’lty approv’d by every age,
I shook my head.
So many to curse, so few to pray,
And some aloud huzza did cry,
They curs’d the Rebel Scots that day,
As they’d been nout
Brought up for slaughter, as that way
Too many rowt.
Therefore, Alas! dear countrymen,
O never do the like again,
To thirst for vengeance, never ben
Your guns nor pa’
But with th’ English, e’en borrow and len,
Let anger fa’.
Their boasts and bullyings, not worth a louse,
As our king’s the best about the house,
’Tis ay good to be sober and douce,
To live in peace,
For many I see, for being o’er crouse,
Gets broken face.