The Scot will not fight till he has seen his own blood.
TAE A FART
Oh whit a sleekit horrible beastie
Lurks in yer belly efter the feastie
Jist as ye sit doon among yer kin
There sterts tae stir an enormous win'
The neeps 'n tatties 'n mushy peas
Stert workin' like a gentle breeze
But soon the puddin' wi' the sauncie face
Will hae ye blawin' a' ower the place
Nae maiter whit the hell ye dae
A'bodys gonnae hiv tae pay
Even if ye try tae stifle
Its like a bullet oot a rifle
Haw'd yer bum ticht tae the chair
Tae try an' stop the leakin' air
Shifty yersel' fae cheek tae cheek
Pray tae God it disnae reek
But aw yer efforts go assunder
Oot it comes like a clap o' thunder
Ricochets aroon the room
Michty me a sonic boom
God almichty it fairly reeks
Hope a huvnae sh't ma breeks
Tae the bog a better scurry
Aw whit the hell its not ma wurry
A'body roon aboot me chokin'
Wan or twa are nearly bokin'
A'll feel better for a while
Cannae help but raise a smil
Wis him! A shout wi' accusin' glower
Alas too late, he's jist keeled ower
Ye dirty b'gger they shout and stare
A dinnae feel welcome ony mair
Where e'er ye be let yer wind gang free
Sounds like jist the job fur me
Whit a fuss at Rabbie's party
Ower the sake
O' wan wee farty ������
that he stands in an attitude towards the past
unthinkable to Englishmen, and remembers and
cherishes the memory of his forebears, good or
bad; and there burns alive in him a sense of identity
with the dead even to the twentieth generation.
Robert Louis Stevenson
Of our ancestors, brave true ancient Scots,
Whose glorious scutcheons knew no bars or blots;
But blood untainted circled ev'ry vein,
And ev'ry thing ignoble did disdain;
Of such illustrious patriots and bold,
Who stoutly did maintain our rights of old,
Who their malicious, invet'rate foes,
With sword in hand, did gallantly oppose:
And in their own, and nation's just defence,
Did briskly check the frequent insolence
Of haughty neighbours, enemies profest,
Picts, Danes, and Saxons, Scotland's very pest;
Of such, I say, I'll brag and vaunt so long
As I have power to use my pen or tongue;
And sound their praises in such modern strain
As suiteth best a Scot's poetic vein,
First, here I honour, in particular,
Sir William Wallace, much renown'd in war,
Whose bold progenitors have long time stood,
Of honourable and true Scottish blood.
translated by William of Gilbertfield 1772
from
The Lay Of The Last Minstrel
Breath's there the man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well,
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
Sir Walter Scott
I aye mind o' that wee hoose that stood on the brae,
Its lum was aye reekin', its roof made o' stray.
The ootside was bonny, the inside was snug,
But whit I mind best o' was the wee wally dug.
It stood in a corner, high up on the shelf,
And keepit an ee on the best o' the delf.
It was washed twice a year, frae its tail tae its lug,
And pit back on the shelf, was the wee wally dug,.
When oor John got mairrit tae sweet Jeannie Blue,
The auld folks they gied him a horse an' a coo,
But when I left the hoose, ma hert gied a tug,
For a' mither gied me was the wee wally dug.
There's an auld saying, 'Ne'er look a gift horse in the moo',
But I looked that wee dug frae its tail tae its broo'
An' a fun' a wee slit at the back o' its lug,
It was stuffed fu' o' notes, was the wee wally dug.
I tain it hame tae oor Lizzle tae pit on a shelf,
An' I telt her the worth o' that wee bit o' delf.
An' we aye feed it yet through that hole in its lug,
It's a guid bit o' stuff, is the wee wally dug.
Anon.
As from the house your mother sees
You playing round the garden trees,
So you may see, if you will look
Through the windows of this book,
Another child, far, far away,
And in another garden, play.
But do not think you can at all,
By knocking on the window, call
That child to hear you. He intent
Is all on his play-business bent.
He does not hear; he will not look,
Nor yet be lured out of this book.
For, long ago, the truth to say,
He has grown up and gone away,
And it is but a child of air
That lingers in the garden there.
R.L. Sevenson
Sean Connery, professional Scotsman
Sir Walter Scott
