risin' blaze o' the moon!"

"What plague, the French landit!" quo' Symon,
And clash gaed his pipe to the wa',
"Faith, then there's be loadin' and primin',"
Quo' he, "if they 're landit ava.

"Our youngest son 's in the militia,
Our eldest grandson 's volunteer:
O' the French to be fu' o' the flesh o',
I too in the ranks shall appear."

His waistcoat pouch fill'd he wi' pouther,
And bang'd down his rusty auld gun;
His bullets he put in the other,
That he for the purpose had run.

Then humpled he out in a hurry,
While Janet his courage bewails,
And cried out, "Dear Symon, be wary!"
And teughly she hang by his tails.

"Let be wi' your kindness," quo' Symon,
"Nor vex me wi' tears and your cares,
For now to be ruled by a woman,
Nae laurels shall crown my gray hairs."

Quo' Janet, "Oh, keep frae the riot!
Last night, man, I dreamt ye was dead;
This aught days I tentit a pyot
Sit chatt'rin' upo' the house-head.

"And yesterday, workin' my stockin',
And you wi' the sheep on the hill,
A muckle black corbie sat croakin';
I kend it foreboded some ill."

"Hout, cheer up, dear Janet, be hearty,
For ere the next sun may gae down,
Wha kens but I 'll shoot Bonaparte,
And end my auld days in renown?"

"Then hear me," quo' Janet, "I pray thee,
I 'll tend thee, love, living or dead,
And if thou should fa' I 'll die wi' thee,
Or tie up thy wounds if thou bleed."

Syne aff in a fury he stumpled,
Wi' bullets, and pouther, and gun;
At 's curpin auld Janet too humpled,
Awa to the next neighb'rin' town.

There footmen and yeomen paradin',
To scour aff in dirdum were seen,
Auld wives and young lasses a-sheddin'
The briny saut tears frae their een.

Then aff wi' his bannet gat Symon,
And to the commander he gaes;
Quo' he, "Sir, I mean to gae wi' ye, man,
And help ye to lounder our faes.

"I 'm auld, yet I 'm teugh as the wire,
Sae we 'll at the rogues have a dash,
And, fegs, if my gun winna fire,
I 'll turn her butt-end, and I 'll thrash."

"Well spoken, my hearty old hero,"
The captain did smiling reply,
But begg'd he wad stay till to-morrow,
Till daylight should glent in the sky.

Whatreck, a' the stour cam to naething;
Sae Sy