454 ANNUAL REGISTER, 1799: 
WALLACE’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 
BY ROBERT BURNS. 
COTS, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled; 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to glorious victorie ! 
WNow’s the day, and now’s the hour; 
See the front o’ battle lour; 
See approach proud Edward’s pow’r! 
Edward! chains and flaverie ! 
Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward’s grave? 
Wha fae bafe as be a flave? 
Traitor! coward! turn and flie! 
Wha for Scotland’s King and Law, 
. Freedom’s fword will ftrongly draw ; 
Freeman ftand, or freeman fa’, 
Caledonian! on wi’ me ! 
By Oppreffion’s woes and pains ! 
By your fons in fervile chains ! 
‘ We will drain our deareft veins, 
: But they fhall, they fhall be free! 
Lay the  Nanasabad low ! 
‘Tyrants fall in ev’ry foe } 
‘Liberty’s in ev’ry blow ! 
Forward + let us go, or die! 
SONNETS, 
ATTEMPTED IN THE MANNER OF ‘CONTEMPORARY WRITERS,’ 
Frem the Monthly Magazine. 
Sonner FE. 
ENSIVE, at eve, on the hard world I mus’d, 
And my poor heart was fad: fo at the moon 
I gaz’d,—and figh’d, and figh’d!—For ah! how feon 
Eve darkens into night. Mine eye perus’d 
With fearful vacancy, the dampy grafs, 
Which wept and glitter’d in the paly ray; 
And I did paufe me on my lonely way, * 
And mus’d me on thofe wretched ones who-pa 
©’er the black heath of sorrow. But, alas! 
Moft of mysexvr I thought: when it befell, 
That the footh spirit of the breezy wood 
Breath’d in mine ear, * All this is very well; 
But much of one thing is for zo thing good.” 
Ah! my poor heart’s inexplicable fwell! 
Noewemsan Hiccinsorrom. 
SoNNET 
