Hey! Jock, are ye glad ye ‘listed?
O Jock, but ye’re far frae hame!
What d’ye think o’ the fields o’ Flanders?
Jockey lad, are ye glad ye came?
Wet rigs we wrought in the land o’ Lennox,
When Hielan’ hills were smeared wi’ snaw;
Deer we chased through the seepin’ heather,
But the glaur o’ Flanders dings them a’!
This is no’ Fair o’ Balloch,
Sunday claes and a penny reel;
It’s no’ for dancin’ at a bridal
Willie Lawrie’s bagpipes squeal.
Men are to kill in the morn’s mornin’;
Here we’re back to your daddy’s trade;
Naething for’t but to cock the bonnet,
Buckle on graith and kiss the maid.
The Cornal’s yonder deid in tartan,
Sinclair’s sheuched in Neuve Eglise;
Slipped awa wi’ the sodger’s fever,
Kinder than ony auld man’s disease.
Scotland! Scotland! little we’re due ye’,
Poor employ and skim-milk board.
But youth’s a cream that maun be paid for,
We got it reamin’, so here’s the sword!
Come awa’, Jock, and cock your bonnet,
Swing your kilt as best ye can;
Auld Dumbarton’s Drums are dirlin’,
Come awa’, Jock, and kill your man!
Far’s the cry to Leven Water
Where your fore-folks went to war,
They would swap wi’ us to-morrow,
Even in the Flanders glaur!