And whose that generous princely mien
Even rooted foes admire ?
Stranger, to justly shew that brow,
And mark that eye of fire,
Would take His hand, whose vernal tints
His other works admire.
Bright as a cloudless summer sun,
With stately port he moves;
His guardian seraph eyes with awe
The noble ward he loves.
Among the illustrious Scottish sons
That chief thou may'st discern;
Mark Scotia's fond returning eye,
It dwells upon Glencairn.
WHEN Guildford good our pilot stood,
And did our helm thraw, man,
Ae night, at tea, began a plea,
Within America, man :
Then up they gat the maskin'-pat,
And in the sea did jaw, man ;
And did nae less, in full Congréss,
Than quite refuse our law, man.
Then through the lakes Montgomery takes,
I wat he was na slaw, man;
Down Lowrie's Burn he took a turn,
And Carleton did ca', man ;
But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec,
Montgomery-like did få’, man,
Wi' sword in hand, before his band,
Amang his en'mies a’, man.
Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage,
Was kept at Boston ha', man;
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe
For Philadelphia, man.
Wi' sword and gun he thought a sin
Guid Christian blood to draw, man:
But at New York, wi' knife and fork,
Sir-loin he hackèd sma', man.
Burgoyne gaed up, like spur and whip,
Till Fraser brave did fa', man;
Then lost his way, ae misty day,
In Saratoga shaw, man.
Cornwallis fought as lang 's he dought,
And did the buckskins claw, man;
But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save,
He hung it to the wa', man.
Then Montague, and Guildford too,
Began to fear a fa', man;
And Sackville dour, wha stood the stoure,
The German Chief to thraw, man:
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk,
Nac mercy had at a', man;
And Charlie Fox threw by the box,
And lowsed his tinkler jaw, man.
Then Rockingham took up the game,
Till death did on him ca', man;
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek,
Conform to gospel law, man.
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise,
They did his measures thraw, man,
For North and Fox united stocks,
And bore him to the wa', man.
Then clubs and hearts were Charlie's cartes,
He swept the stakes awa’, man,
Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race,
Led him a sair faux pas, man.
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads,
On Chatham's boy did ca', man ;
And Scotland drew her pipe, and blew,
“Up, Willie, waur them a', man!”
Behind the throne then Grenville's gone,
A secret word or twa, man;
While slee Dundas aroused the class,
Be-north the Roman Wa', man:
And Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, (Inspired bardies saw, man,)
Wi' kindling eyes cried: "Willie, rise!
Would I hae feared them a', man?"
But, word and blow, North, Fox, and Co., Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man,
Till Suthron raise, and coost their claise
Behind him in a raw, man;
And Caledon threw by the drone,
And did her whittle draw, man;
And swoor fu' rude, through dirt and blood,
To make it guid in law, man.
'AIR fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin'-race :
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairi ;
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill;
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While through your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic labour dight,
And cut you up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like ony ditch;
And then, oh what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin', rich!
Then horn for horn they stretch and strive, Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld guidman, maist like to rive, "Bethankit!" hums.
Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect scunner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner!
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a withered rash,
His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Through bloody flood or field to dash,
Oh how unfit!
But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
And legs, and arms, and heads will sned, Like taps o' thrissle.
Ye Powers wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies; wish her gratefu' prayer, Gie her a Haggis!
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