Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',
My gear's a' gane.
But Peenye, my gude son, is out at the Hagbut-head,
His e'en glittering for anger like a fierye gleed;
Crying--"Mak sure the nooks
Of Maky's-muir crooks;
For the wily Scot takes by nooks, hooks, and crooks.
Gin we meet a' together in a head the morn,
We'll be merry men."
Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a'
My gear's a' gane.
There's doughty Cuddy in the Heugh-head,
Thou was aye gude at a' need:
With thy brock-skin bag at thy belt,
Ay ready to mak a puir man help.
Thou maun awa' out to the cauf-craigs,
(Where anes ye lost your ain twa naigs)
And there toom thy brock-skin bag.
Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',
My gear's a' taen.
Doughty Dan o' the Houlet Hirst,
Thou was aye gude at a birst:
Gude wi' a bow, and better wi' a speir,
The bauldest march-man, that e'er followed gear;
Come thou here.
Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',
My gear's a' gane.
Rise, ye carle coopers, frae making o' kirns and tubs,
In the Nicol forest woods.
Your craft has na left the value of an oak rod,
But if you had had ony fear o' God,
Last night ye had na slept sae sound,
And let my gear be a' ta'en.
Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',
My gear's a' ta'en.
Ah! lads, we'll fang them a' in a net!
For I hae a' the fords o' Liddel set;
The Dunkin, and the Door-loup,
The Willie-ford, and the Water-slack,
The Black-rack and the Trout-dub o' Liddel;
There stands John Forster wi' five men at his back,
Wi' bufft coat and cap of steil:
Boo! ca' at them e'en, Jock;
That ford's sicker, I wat weil.
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