Freedom For Scotland
Scotland's Ma Hame
More Poetry
Here's a health to them that's awa',
Here's a health to them that's awa'!
Ad wha winna wish guid luck to our cause,
May never guid luck be their fa'!
It's guid to be merry and wise,
It's guid to be honest and true,
It's guid to support Caledonia's cause
And bide by the buff and the blue.

Here's a' health to them that's awa',
Here's a' health to them that's awa'!

Here's a' health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan,
Altho' that his band be sma'!
May Liberty meet wi' success,
May Prudence protect her frae evil!
May Tyrants and Tyranny tine
I' the mist And wander their way to the Devil!

Here's a' health to them that's awa',
Here's a' health to them that's awa'!

Here's a' health to Tammie, the Norlan' laddie,
That lives at the lug o' the Law!
Here's freedom to them that wad read,
Here's freedom to them that would write!
There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be heard
But they whom the truth would indite!

Here's a' health to them that's awa',
And here's to them that's awa'!

Here's to Maitland and Wycombe!
Let wha' does na like 'em
Be built in a hole in the wa'!
Here's timmer that's red at the heart,
Here's fruit that is sound at the core,
And may be that wad turn the buff and blue coat
Be turn'd to the back o' the door!

Here's a' health to them that's aw'a,
Here's a' health to them that's awa'!

Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth gowd,
Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw!
Here's friends on baith sides o' the Firth,
And friends on baith sides o' the Tweed,
And wha' wad betray old Albion's right,
May they never eat of her bread!
By Robert Burns
       Address to the Unco Guid.

My Son, these maxims make a rule,
An lump them aye thegither:
The Rigid Righteous is a fool,
The Rigid Wise anither;
The cleanest corn that e'er was dight
May hae some pyles 'o caff in;
So ne'er a fellow-creature slight
For random fits 'o daffin.

'O ye, wha are sae guid yoursel,
Sae pious and sae holy,
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell
Your neebours' fauts and folly!
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
Supplied wi store o water;
The heapet happer's ebbing still,
An still the clap plays clatter!

Hear me, ye venerable core,
As counsel for poor mortals
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door
For glaikit Folly's portals:
I for their thoughtless, careless sakes,
Would here propone defences -
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,
Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi' their's compared,
And shudder at the niffer;
But cast a moment's fair regard,
What makes the mighty differ?
Discount what scant occasion gave;
That purity ye pride in;
And (what's aft mair than a' the lave)
Your better art 'o hidin.

Think, when your castigated pulse
Gies now and then a wallop,
What ragings must his veins convulse,
That still eternal gallop!
Wi' wind and tide fair I your tail,
Right on ye scud your sea-way;
But in the teeth o baith to sail,
It makes an unco lee-way.

See Social Life and Glee sit down,
All joyous and unthinking,
Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown
Debauchery and Drinking:
'O, would they stay to calculate
Th' eternal consequences,
Or your more dreaded hell to state 
Damnation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,
Tied up in godly laces,
Before ye gie poor Frailty names,
Suppose a change 'o cases:
A dear-lov'd lad, convenience snug,
A treach'rous inclination -
But, let me whisper in your lug,
Ye're aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother man,
Still gentler sister woman;
Tho they may gang a kennin wrang,
To step aside is human:
One point must still be greatly dark,
The moving Why they do it;
And just as lamely can ye mark,
How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone
Decidedly can try us:
He knows each chord, its various tone,
Each spring, its various bias:
Then at the balance let's be mute,
We never can adjust it;
What's done we partly may compute,
But know not what's resisted.
By Robert Burns
           Paper Kate
Wha but kens o' Paper Kate?
Trudgin', pechin' air and late,
Sair forfouchen, never bate,
Reglar as the post was Kate.

Winter storms micht rage and blaw,
Roads be deep in driftit snaw,
Bus micht coup and train micht wait,
But nocht could taigle Paper Kate.

Up the mile-lang village street
Cam' the trot o' Katie's feet;
Roun' the farms and villas nate
Nae dog barked at Paper Kate.

A' the weanies in the place
Kent her wee roun' wrunklet face;
Rinnin' scuddy to the gate,
Aft they welcomed Paper Kate.

Kate had crack for auld and young
Wha was deid and wha was hung,
And a' the great affairs o' state,
Nane could reel them aff like Kate.

Katie's shawl - 'twas ocht but warm
That shielded aye her ware frae harm,
Lang had lost its young conceit
When first it met wi' Paper Kate.

Katie's shoon - in winter worn -
Aff were flung at May's return:
"Shoon an' siller's ill to get
Hackit heels are cheap!" quo' Kate.

Blithe when weary banes were sair,
Cheery aye, though auld and puir;
Nane that ever foucht wi' Fate
Kept a spunkier heart than Kate.

But ae winter mornin' snell
Puir auld Katie slip't and fell:
Hame was carried, cauld and quate -
Syne we heard nae mair o' Kate.

Where she lies there's few that care -
Whiles a daisy waukens there;
But for stane, or name, or date,
Wha wad fash for Paper Kate?
Walter Wingate
This is my country,
The land that begat me,
These windy spaces
Are surely my own.
and those who toil here
In the sweat of their faces
Are flesh of my flesh
And bone of my bone.
Declaration of Arbroath

For so long as one hundred men remain alive, we shall never under any conditions submit to the domination of the English. It is not for glory or riches or honours that we fight, but only for liberty, which no good man will consent to lose but with his life.
              The Maker

Nae man wha loves the lowland tongue
But wartles wi' the thocht
There are mair sangs that bide unsung
Nor a' that hae been wrocht.

Ablow the wastrey o' the years
The thorter o' himsel
Deep buried in his bluid he hear's
A music that is leal.

William Soutar
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