Poems, on sacred and other subjects and songs, humorous and sentimental: By the late William Watt. Third edition of the songs only--with additional songs |
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 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
99
BAULDY FRAZER'S GAZETTE OF THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
Guid e'en t'ye, Bauldy, lean ye down,
And let us hae your crack, man,—
How's butter ratin' in the town?
Is trade now brisk or slack, man?
Or ken ye oucht about the wars,
How Britain sorts her feuds and jars?
I've heard our gallant mountaineers
Ha'e scoured their guns and filed their spears;
The French, ma certes, ha'e their fears,
Sin' Cam'ron's ta'en the lea, man;
Baith crakit crowns, and rippit kytes,
I trow, they'll shortly see, man.
And let us hae your crack, man,—
How's butter ratin' in the town?
Is trade now brisk or slack, man?
Or ken ye oucht about the wars,
How Britain sorts her feuds and jars?
I've heard our gallant mountaineers
Ha'e scoured their guns and filed their spears;
The French, ma certes, ha'e their fears,
Sin' Cam'ron's ta'en the lea, man;
Baith crakit crowns, and rippit kytes,
I trow, they'll shortly see, man.
Auld nei'bour Gawn, wi' staff in's han',
Cam' wheezlin' up the gait, man,
To tell us how the French had fa'en,
And Bonny was defeat, man;
And how the British, roun' and roun',
Lap owre the wa's o' Paris toun;
Baith sword and lance did brightly glance,
When they did lay the pride o' France;
And mony thousands tript the dance
O' death upon the lea, man;
Some tint their heads, some tint their legs,
The rest awa' did flee, man.
Cam' wheezlin' up the gait, man,
To tell us how the French had fa'en,
And Bonny was defeat, man;
And how the British, roun' and roun',
Lap owre the wa's o' Paris toun;
Baith sword and lance did brightly glance,
When they did lay the pride o' France;
And mony thousands tript the dance
O' death upon the lea, man;
Some tint their heads, some tint their legs,
The rest awa' did flee, man.
Lord Wellington, through mist and weet,
Fu' soon their drift did draw, man,
And drew his men, wi' motion fleet,
In mony a bonny raw, man.
His bauld dragoons, upon the plain,
Regardless o' baith fire and rain,
At first comman', wi' steady han',
Their giant swords had scarcely drawn,
Till scores o' cloven French lay fa'en—
(As sure as death it's true, man!)
They gasped, grain'd, and cursed the day
They cam' to Waterloo, man.
Fu' soon their drift did draw, man,
And drew his men, wi' motion fleet,
In mony a bonny raw, man.
His bauld dragoons, upon the plain,
Regardless o' baith fire and rain,
At first comman', wi' steady han',
Their giant swords had scarcely drawn,
Till scores o' cloven French lay fa'en—
(As sure as death it's true, man!)
They gasped, grain'd, and cursed the day
They cam' to Waterloo, man.
Our Norlan' lads, in tartan clad,
Did naething fear ava, man,
Afore them aye the road they redd,
Scotch valour they did shaw, man.
In horrid slaps, the rebel louns
Were levell'd by their sharp platoons;
But when they heard the Cornal's words,—
Fix'd Bayonets, and Highland swords!
Fast aff the birkies flew like birds,
To save their precious lives, man;
But thousands o' them ne'er wan hame
To see their weans and wives, man.
Did naething fear ava, man,
Afore them aye the road they redd,
Scotch valour they did shaw, man.
100
Were levell'd by their sharp platoons;
But when they heard the Cornal's words,—
Fix'd Bayonets, and Highland swords!
Fast aff the birkies flew like birds,
To save their precious lives, man;
But thousands o' them ne'er wan hame
To see their weans and wives, man.
But och! it's painfu' to relate,
(Although we gain'd the day, man,)
Brave Ponsonby and Picton's fate,
As weel as mony mae, man;
Wi' gallant Cam'ron o' the North,
The bravest chiel ayont the Forth.
But, guid-be-thankit, Bonny's fled,
For wham sae mony thousands bled;
A bonny dance himsel' he's led,
The proud ambitious fool, man;
His throne, he thocht sae firm and sure,
Has cowpit like a stool, man.
(Although we gain'd the day, man,)
Brave Ponsonby and Picton's fate,
As weel as mony mae, man;
Wi' gallant Cam'ron o' the North,
The bravest chiel ayont the Forth.
But, guid-be-thankit, Bonny's fled,
For wham sae mony thousands bled;
A bonny dance himsel' he's led,
The proud ambitious fool, man;
His throne, he thocht sae firm and sure,
Has cowpit like a stool, man.
| Poems, on sacred and other subjects | |