Freedom For Scotland
Scotland's Ma Hame
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The Scot will not fight till he has seen his own blood.
BURNS    FOR   THE   SCOTS

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 
For that is the mark of the Scots of all classes:
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
Life of Sir William Wallace
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
      Breathe's There the Man
                        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
                      The Wally Dug

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.
To Any Reader
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
'I am a member of the SNP because I believe that Scotland must again become an independent nation. Not because Scotland is different, but because Scotland is simply the same - the same as every other wealthy small country in Europe. What we seek for Scotland is the normal status of a small ancient nation - one that has almost 70% of Europe's crucial energy reserves, and yet has to stand outside when the important decisions are taken.'
Sean Connery, professional Scotsman
"I ken when we had King, and a chancellor, and a Parliment-- men o'our ain, we could peeble them wi' stanes when they werena gude bairnes. But naebody's nails can reach the length o'Lunnon."
                                                         Sir Walter Scott
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