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We've nae use for a deil ava,

If that he disna get them ; By fire and famine they have done

The work of extirpation, And hounded out a noble race,

The bulwark of the nation.

Sadly they left their mountains blue,

To go they knew not whither, Or far amid Canadian wilds,

Sigh for their hills of heather ; Tell county lairds ye'll tolerate

Their bothies black nae longer, Try whether christianity

Or mammon is the stronger.

Explore the dreary vaults o'toil,

Where fashion never ventures, The Saxon slaves in sweating caves,

Where daylight never enters; Tell tyrants ye are watching them,

Tho' ere so deaf they'll hear you, And a' the lazy vampire crew, Will baith

and fear


And if

ye canna humanize The heartless purse-proud revers, Ye'll cheer at least the drooping hearts

O' hungry, starving weavers ; Wherever there is night and woe,

Bring tidings of the morrow, O let the church be as of old,

“The sanctuary of sorrow.

Leave forms to flunkeys and to fools,

They never made a true man,
Preach christianity as 'tis-

A thing intensely human ;
Be as your lord and master was,

The shield of the forsaken,
And dying faith will spread her wings,

And into life awaken.


Where Speed rolls her waters

Away to the lake,
Through quiet green pastures

And tangled wood brake,
There lives a fair maiden

A monarch might own, Yea, pledge for her favour

His kingdom and throne.

No cold marble beauty,

No angel is she,
But a sweet mortal maiden

Who smiles upon me;
A creature of feeling,

Of hopes and of fears, Of joys and of sorrows,

Of smiles and of tears.

She's fair as the gowans

On Scotia's green braes,

And dear as the

memory Of youth's happy days; Her ringlets are golden,

Her eyes are of blue, And the heart in her bosom

Is tender and true.

That bosom's a fountain

Of thoughts pure and fair, And the streams of affection

Are aye gushing there ; And long by that fountain

May peace spread her wing, And joy love to linger,

And hope love to sing.

And ne'er may she sigh

O'er affection's decay, O'er loves and o'er friendships

All faded away ; And faithful the lover

Who's favoured to lead, To love's holy altar,

The Flower of the Speed.


It isna goud, it isna gear,

It isna walth o'lan,
It isna polish, art or lair,

That makes the gentleman.

Auld nature stamps him in her mint,

And trains him in her school, And laughs at a' the counterfeits,

We make by square and rule.

Its no the outward sleek attire,

Nor jewels on the han,
But its the living heart within,

That makes the gentleman.


I've met him in a hame spun coat,

And shook his hardened haun, I've met him in a cozie bield,

The laird o' a' the lan.

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