Whilst travelin’ down a Scottish road-
I came upon a fire...
Beside the which a Traveler sat-
Another “blade for ‘ire”.
‘e eyed me close, as I came up-
‘is ‘and upon the ‘ilt-
O’ Spanish steel, then ‘e relaxed,
‘is eyes upon me kilt.
“Buchanan, ey”? ‘e said, an’ smiled.
“An’ pray! an’ ‘ave a chair”..
‘e smiled, and motioned to the sward-
And bade me share his fare.
“Why, lad! Perhaps I knew yer, Dad-
The tartan suits ye well!
Buchanan get, are fightin’ men-
That yer one I can tell”.
A crust o’ bread, a slab o’ cheese-
A noggin full ave ale..
A roadside fire, wi’ cheerful bleeze-
I’ll tell me Traveler’s tale.
I mind when James was on the throne-
A bloody despot, ‘e!
An’ England flew ‘er colors..
On every land and sea.
A Scot doth hate the English throne..
But, hoot! the pay is good...
An’ pay they did, as Scotsmen bled-
Their fine, an’ noble blood.
Put out yon fire! It’s hooves I ‘ear-
A comin’ down the trail...
Which bids no good for posted Scots-
Thus ends this Traveler’s tale.
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