Four songs

                          8

Ye Laſses, wha's Laddies are yonder,
Cae ilk ane, and buy a new gown ;
A thousand it is to a hunder,
They've fallen on the 18th of June.
Ye fops, and veſine gaudy mortals
Whose life's like the miſt of the morn,
An hour in this terrible conflict
Would told you what for you was born.
The groans of the dying and wounded,
Would sent through your bosoms a ſtoon !
You would learn'd to have dane'd a new figure,
At the Ball on the 18th of June.
From half after ten in the morning,
Til half after seven at night,
Thy meadows, La Belie Alliance,
Did ne'er before see such a sight !
Till the thunder of twice fifty cannons
Proclaim'd we the battle had wen ;
While the moon, in the night, as ſhe view'd it,
Recorded the 18th of June
But now, to cut ſhort a long ſtory.
Here's joy to our heres at large ;
May Britain lang keep up her glory,
And Donald lang ken how to charge.
And may her bold sons ſtill defend her,
From the paws of a foreigner oon ;
And may he who dares to offend her,
Get fun like the 18th of June.