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Poem by Robert Nicoll


Auld Donald


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!



Robert Nicoll


Robert Nicoll's other poems:
  1. The Lass of Turrit HaТ
  2. Minister Tam
  3. The Spinnin'-Wheel
  4. We'll A' Go Pu' the Heather
  5. The Place That I Love Best


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