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Poem by Robert Nicoll
DONALD fought in France and Spain, Donald mony men hath killed, And frae the pouches o' the slain Aft has he his spleuchan filled. Donald was a soldier good, Though whiles the bicker made him fa', He meikle fought and plundered mair, Where might was right, and force was law! Donald's pow grew white as lint, Donald langer wou'dna doЧ Hame he cam wi' coppers six Ilk day to melt in mountain-dew. Donald tells his fearfu' tales, Donald drinks like ony sow, And mony battles does he fecht, Wi' bourtree bushes, when he's fou. Donald a' the laddies' heads Has filled wi' thoughts o' sword and gun; He gars them fecht like sparrow-cocks, And thinks it nocht but famous fun. Now dinna crook your saintly mou' At Donald's sin and Donald's shame: Ye ken, by Donald and his like We've gotten such a glorious name!
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