Freedom For Scotland Scotland's Ma Hame
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How Wallace fought for Scotland;
left the name Of 'Wallace' to be found like a wild flower
All over his dear country ;
left the deeds Of Wallace ,
like a family of ghosts
To people the steeps rocks and river banks
Her natural sanctuaries ,
with a local soul
Of independence and stern Liberty .

William Wordsworth
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Paterson
Still as I view each well known scene,
Think what is now, and what hath been.
Scott.
Motherwell History
Motherwell Football
Old and New Photographs of Motherwell
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The Auld Manse Cemetery
South Dalziel Church Motherwell
Dalziel Estate
               To A Haggis

Fair fa' your honest sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin' race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place
Painch, tripe, or thairm;
Weel are ye worthy 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 all 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 ragoût
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricasse 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 wither'd 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;
But if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a haggis!
Robert Burns
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              Written In 1787

Here Stuarts once in glory reigned,
And laws for Scotland's weal ordained;
But now unroof'd their palace stands,
Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands;
Fallen indeed, and to the earth
Whence groveling reptiles take their birth.
The injured Stuart line is gone,
A race outlandish fills their throne;
An idiot race, to honour lost;
Who know them best despise them most.

Somebody wrote this on the window of an Inn at Stirling, when they saw the Royal Palace in ruin.

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Stastical Account
Dalziel Parish
1798
Statistical Account Parish of Dalziel
1836
Freedom
The Auld Manse Graveyard
The Covenanters Graveyard
The Covenanters Oak
Andrew
John
Jane Brown
Ode tae Rabbie
Ma Frien'The Robin
A Wean Cau'd Anne
                          Horace

Much to his Mum and Dad's dismay
Horace ate himself one day.
He didn't stop to say his grace,
He just sat down and ate his face.
We can't have this!; his Dad declared,
;If that lad's ate, he should have shared.
But even as he spoke they saw
Horace eating more and more:
First his legs and then his thighs,
His arms, his nose, his hair, his eyes...
Stop him someone!Mother cried Those eyeballs would be better fried
But all too late, for they were gone,
And he had started on his dong...
Oh! Foolish child!the father mourns
You could have deep-fried that with prawns,
Some parsley and some tartar sauce...
But H. was on his second course:
His liver and his lights and lung,
His ears, his neck, his chin, his tongue;
To think I raised him from the cot
And now he's going to scoff the lot!
His Mother cried: What shall we do?
What's left won't even make a stew...
And as she wept, her son was seen
To eat his head, his heart, his spleen.
And there he lay: a boy no more,
Just a stomach, on the floor...
None the less, since it was his
They ate it -- that's what haggis is.

Unknown.

This page first perpetrated on the public: January 9, 1996 and left unscathed until September 22, 1998
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1942-2001
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Bits an' Bobs
The Dominie's Happy Lot

The Dominie is growing grey,
And feth he's keepit thrang
Wi' counts an' spellin' a' the day,
And liffies when they're wrang.
He dauners out at nine o'clock,
He dauners hame at four
Frae twal to ane to eat and smoke
And sae his day is owre!
Oh! Leezie, Leezie, fine and easy
Is a job like yon -
A' Saturday at gowf to play,
And aye the pay gaun on!
When winter days are cauld and dark,
And dykes are deep wi' snaw,
And bairns are shivern' owre their wark, He shuts the shop at twa;
And when it comes to Hogmanay,
And fun comes roarin' ben,
And ilka dog maun tak' a day,
The Dominie tak's ten!
Oh! Leezie, Leezie, fine and easy
Is a job like yon
To stop the mill whene'er you will,
And aye the pay gaun on!
And when Inspectors gi'e a ca'
He tak's them roun' to dine,
And aye the upshot o' it a -
'"The bairns are daein' fine!"
And sae the "Board" come smirkin' roun' Wi' prizes in their haun';
And syne it's frae the end o' June
Until the Lord kens whan!
Oh! Leezie, Leezie, fine and easy
Is a job like yon
Sax weeks to jaunt and gallivant,
And aye the pay gaun on!
Walter Wingate
The Sair Finger

You've hurt your finger? Puir wee man!
Your pinkie? Deary me!
Noo, juist you haud it that wey till
I get my specs and see!

My, so it is - and there's the skelf!
Noo, dinna greet nae mair
See there - my needle's gotten't out!
I'm sure that wasna sair?

And noo, to make it hale the morn
Put on a wee bit saw
And tie a bonnie hankie roun't
Noo, there na - rin awa'!

Your finger sair ana'? Ye rogue,
Ye're only lettin' on!
Weel, weel, then - see noo, there ye are,
Row'd up the same as John!

by Walter Wingate (4th son of David Wingate)
Scotland

When I came home to Scotland
And found my breast aflame
I knew there was no Country
Could move my heart the same,
Could move my heart and hold it
Through sorrow and through death
No land so rich so lovely
So dear as Scottish earth.

Tis true that forth of Scotland
Were peaks that runt the skies
And that the mind beyond them
Took wings of wild surmise
That coral seas were rainbowed
And bloom flashed warm as mirth
But aye my heart kept cold from me
Withheld from Scottish earth.

There is no land like Scotland
Far travel as you may
She is a land of beauty
Where many suitors pay
Quick court unto her worth
For quick and deep as welling tears
Is love of Scottish earth.

Oh bound am I to Scotland
By every tie of blood
And bound I am to Scotland
By thoughts that is a flood
Sweep over me and through me
From springs of wonderous birth
For love and life and lovelyness
Are mine from Scottish earth.

By John Smellie Martin.
No people so few in number have
scored so deep a mark in the
world’s history as the Scots have done"
- J. A. Froude, English
Historian
a nice mix.
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