I Hae been at Crookieden,
     My bonie laddie, Highland laddie,
     Viewing Willie and his men,
     My bonie laddie, Highland laddie. 
     There our foes that burnt and slew,
     My bonie laddie, Highland laddie,
     There, at last, they gat their due,
     My bonie laddie, Highland laddie.

     Satan sits in his black neuk,
     My bonie laddie, Highland laddie,
     Breaking sticks to roast the Duke,
     My bonie laddie, Highland laddie,
     The bloody monster gae a yell,
     My bonie laddie, Highland laddie. 
     And loud the laugh gied round a’ hell
     My bonie laddie, Highland laddie.

O Kenmure’s On And Awa, Willie

     O Kenmure’s on and awa, Willie,
     O Kenmure’s on and awa: 
     An’ Kenmure’s lord’s the bravest lord
     That ever Galloway saw.

     Success to Kenmure’s band, Willie! 
     Success to Kenmure’s band! 
     There’s no a heart that fears a Whig,
     That rides by kenmure’s hand.

     Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine, Willie! 
     Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine! 
     There’s ne’er a coward o’ Kenmure’s blude,
     Nor yet o’ Gordon’s line.

     O Kenmure’s lads are men, Willie,
     O Kenmure’s lads are men;
     Their hearts and swords are metal true,
     And that their foes shall ken.

     They’ll live or die wi’ fame, Willie;
     They’ll live or die wi’ fame;
     But sune, wi’ sounding victorie,
     May Kenmure’s lord come hame!

     Here’s him that’s far awa, Willie! 
     Here’s him that’s far awa! 
     And here’s the flower that I loe best,
     The rose that’s like the snaw.

Epistle To John Maxwell, ESQ., Of Terraughty

     On His Birthday.

     Health to the Maxwell’s veteran Chief! 
     Health, aye unsour’d by care or grief: 
     Inspir’d, I turn’d Fate’s sibyl leaf,
     This natal morn,
     I see thy life is stuff o’ prief,
     Scarce quite half-worn.

     This day thou metes threescore eleven,
     And I can tell that bounteous Heaven
     (The second-sight, ye ken, is given
     To ilka Poet)
     On thee a tack o’ seven times seven
     Will yet bestow it.

     If envious buckies view wi’ sorrow
     Thy lengthen’d days on this blest morrow,
     May Desolation’s lang-teeth’d harrow,
     Nine miles an hour,
     Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah,
     In brunstane stour.

     But for thy friends, and they are mony,
     Baith honest men, and lassies bonie,
     May couthie Fortune, kind and cannie,
     In social glee,
     Wi’ mornings blythe, and e’enings funny,
     Bless them and thee!