Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',
My gear's a' ta'en.
Hoo! hoo! gar raise the Reid Souter, and Ringan's Wat,
Wi' a broad elshin and a wicker;
I wat weil they'll mak a ford sicker.
Sae whether they be Elliots or Armstrangs,
Or rough riding Scots, or rude Johnstones,
Or whether they be frae the Tarras or Ewsdale,
They maun turn and fight, or try the deeps o' Liddel.
Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',
My gear's a' ta'en.
"Ah! but they will play ye another jigg,
For they will out at the big rig,
And thro' at Fargy Grame's gap."
"But I hae another wile for that:
For I hae little Will, and stalwart Wat,
And lang Aicky, in the Souter moor,
Wi' his sleuth dog sits in his watch right sure:
Shou'd the dog gie a bark,
He'll be out in his sark,
And die or won.
Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',
My gear's a' ta'en.
Ha! boys--I see a party appearing--wha's yon!
Methinks it's the captain of Bewcastle, and Jephtha's
John,
Coming down by the foul steps of Catlowdie's loan:
They'll make a sicker, come which way they will.
Ha lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',
My gear's a' ta'en.
Captain Musgrave, and a' his band,
Are coming down by the Siller-strand,
And the muckle toun-bell o' Carlisle is rung:
My gear was a' weel won,
And before it's carried o'er the border, mony a man's
gae down.
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