Seven songs

Greet the bights that gave me shelter
 [ ... ]

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night,
But we'll ne'er stray for faut o' light,
For ale and brandy's stars and moon,
And blude-red wine's the risin sun.

Chorus:
Then guidwife count the lawin, 
      The lawin, the lawin,
Then guidwife count the lawin, 
      And bring a coggie mair.

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen,
And semple folk maun fecht and fen’;
But here we're a' in ae accord,
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord.

My coggie is a haly pool,
That heals the wounds o' care and dool;
And Pleasure is a wanton trout:
An ye drink it a', ye'll find him out!

Ilka hert an’ hind are met
 [ ... ]

The thunder and the dark
Dwindle and disappear:
The free song of the lark
Tumbles in air.

The froth of the wave-drag
Falls back from the pool:
Sheer out of the crag
Lifts the white gull.

Heart! keep your silence still
Mocking the tyrant’s mock:
Thunder is on the hill:
Foam on the rock.

Blow, good wind, from Westward, blow against the dawn
 [ ... ]

There was a Cameronian cat
Was hunting for a prey,
And in the house she catch'd a mouse
Upon the Sabbath-day.

The Whig, being offended
At such an act profane,
Laid by his book, the cat he took,
And bound her in a chain.

“Thou damn'd, thou cursed creature,
This deed so dark with thee,
Think'st thou to bring to hell below
My holy wife and me?

Assure thyself that for the deed
Thou blood for blood shalt pay,
For killing of the Lord's own mouse
Upon the Sabbath-day.”

The presbyter laid by the book,
And earnestly he pray'd
That the great sin the cat had done
Might not on him be laid.

And straight to execution
Poor baudrons she was drawn,
And high hang'd up upon a tree -
Mess John sung a psalm.

And when the work was ended,
They thought the cat near dead;
She gave a paw, and then a mew,
And stretched out her head.

“Thy name”, said he, “shall certainly
A beacon still remain,
A terror unto evil ones
For evermore, Amen.”

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong,
The wretch's destinie!
McPherson's1 time will not be long,
On yonder gallows-tree.
   Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
   Sae dauntingly gae'd he:
   He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round
   Below the gallows-tree.

O what is death but parting breath?
On many a bloody plain
I've dar'd his face, and in this place
I scorn him yet again!
   Sae rantingly, sae wantonly...

Untie these bands from off my hands,
And bring to me my sword[;]2
And there 's no a man in all Scotland,
But I'll brave him at a word.
   Sae rantingly, sae wantonly...

I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife; 
I die by treacherie:
It burns my heart I must depart
And not avenged be.
   Sae rantingly, sae wantonly...

Now farewell, light, thou sunshine bright,
And all beneath the sky!
May coward shame distain his name,
The wretch that dares not die!
   Sae rantingly, sae wantonly...