Classic Poem

Foul fa' thee, vile unchancie docken,
That e'er thou set thy neb in Scotlan';
For now, 'tween sneezin, chowin', smoakin',
There's few are free;
And 'tweel thy taste's no' sae provokin',
'Tween you an' me.

Nae doubt, like ither tares o' evil,
Ye've first been dibbl'd by the devil:
Altho' ye look sae simply civil,
Yet aft 'tis thee
Joins tattlin' jades in clubs convivial,
To clash and lie.

When Autumn, wi' her yellow tap,
Sits bendin' ripe in Nature's lap,
And farmers, keen to cut the crap,
Lest win's should scud it,
Yet weary wives roun' coals will clap,
By thee deludit.

Last year, ere Meg began a-spinnin'
Her lang projected wab o' linen,
To light her pipe she thought nae sin in —
Teazin' her tow;
Countin' wi' care her costs an' winnin',
The stock took low!

Our auld gudeman, sae crouse an' canty,
That said his pray'rs like ony saint ay,
Tinin' his spleuchan i' the pantry —
Now frets and granes,
And banns, an' glowrs, an' girns, an' gaunts ay;
An' paiks the weans.

When bairns an' auld fouks gang to rest,
An' youngsters roun' the fire are plac'd,
Ilk ane sits niest wha he likes best,
Amang the kimmers,
To read their fortune's kittle cast,
Amang the em'ers.

Then Pate pu's out his sneeshin'-mill,
An' Peg will hae't again' his will,
While she, poor young thing, deems nae ill —
He, darklin's grips her:
Some luckless creepie hits her heel,
And backward trips her.

Yestreen, while smoakin' by the hallan,
Blythe Bess cam' by the sonsy callan,
I fain my chin her cheek wad haul'd on —
But nae remead —
She said my breath was past a' tholin';
O! cursed weed.

Thou picklest aft the poor man's pennie;
Ye shake the nerves o' waefu' grannie:
'Tis thee makes mony a thriftless mammie,
An' loiterin' dad;
An' spoils the bluid o' Kate an' Annie,
Till beauties fade.

Thou feed'st a batch o' idle louns,
O' chapmen chiel's in borough towns;
An' curs'd excisemen gaun their roun's,
Wi' saucy gnash;
Forbye a batch o' spinster clowns,
An' sic like trash.

Wae worth the man first brought you here!
Freedom appall'd, looks back wi' fear,
Whare cowrin' wretches do you rear,
Baith air and late;
An' stifle sorrow's briny tear,
In slavery's state.

Had ye been meant for Scotlan's gude,
To clear the min', or clean the bluid,
Ayont the sea ye wadnae stood,
Whare ye're a' weed o'
For she supplies ilk herb an' food,
That we ha'e need o'.

But now, we're sae far seen in arts,
An' learn'd the gate to foreign parts,
That countra clauchans now are marts
For foreign dainties;
We've lost our strength an' honest hearts,
Sin' ye cam' sklent us.

Awa' ye foreign jaups an' gills,
Ye've brought auld Scotlan' mony ills;
Her bairns torn down, wi' puffs and pills,
Tryin' to men' them,
Till, totterin' thro' her heath-clad hills,
Ye'll hardly ken them:

A poor degen'rate pigmy race,
Wi' tame dependence i' their face,
Puff'd up wi' pride an' pert grimace,
Powder'd an' frizz'd —
Strut turkey-like frae place to place,
Ha'f dead, ha'f craz'd!

O, for the days when Wallace bled!
An' Scotlan's sons to glory led;
Or whan Bruce drew the martial blade,
At Bannockburn:
But ah, alas! thae days are fled,
Ne'er to return.

Let English dine on pork an' pease;
Let Welchmen plot an' toast their cheese,
Gi'e Bonny paddock fricassees,
An' fish to Dutchmen —
But brose, an' hame-brew'd barley-brees,
Can rear the Scotchman.