Ye hae heard Whigs crack o' the Saints in the Bass, my faith, a
gruesome tale;
How the Remnant paid at a tippeny rate, for a quart o' ha'penny
ale!
But I'll tell ye anither tale o' the Bass, that'll hearten ye up to
hear,
Sae I pledge ye to Middleton first in a glass, and a health to the
Young Chevalier!

The Bass stands frae North Berwick Law a league or less to sea,
About its feet the breakers beat, abune the sea-maws flee,
There's castle stark and dungeon dark, wherein the godly lay,
That made their rant for the Covenant through mony a weary day.
For twal' years lang the caverns rang wi' preaching, prayer, and
psalm,
Ye'd think the winds were soughing wild, when a' the winds were
calm,
There wad they preach, each Saint to each, and glower as the
soldiers pass,
And Peden wared his malison on a bonny leaguer lass,
As she stood and daffed, while the warders laughed, and wha sae
blithe as she,
But a wind o' ill worked his warlock will, and flang her out to
sea.
Then wha sae bright as the Saints that night, and an angel came,
say they,
And sang in the cell where the Righteous dwell, but he took na a
Saint away.
There yet might they be, for nane could flee, and nane daur'd break