The Works of Thomas Love Peacock

Eh laird! Eh laird! an' ha' ye haird,
That we're to hae nae ae poond nots?
Ye weel may say the Hooses tway
Wad play the de'il wi' a' the Scots.
Ha' they nae fears when Scotland's tears
Flow fast as ony burnie, oh!
But they shall find we've a' one mind,
The mind of one attorney, oh!

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II

De'il take us a' if we can ca'
To mind the day wherein we got
The idle croons o' seely loons
In ony medium but a not.
De'il take us as we hop to be
Wi' spoils o' clients bonny, oh!
If e'er we look to touch a fee
When there's nae paper money, oh!

Solo—Sir Malachi Malagrowther.

III

Quoth Hudibras—Friend Ralph, thou hast
(Hunt's blacking shines on Hyde park wall)
Outrun the Constable at last,
For gold will still be lord of all.
The ups and downs of paper poun's
Have made the English weary, oh!
And 'tis their will old Scotland's mill
Shall e'en gae Tapsalteerie, oh!

IV

Old Scotland brags, she kens of rags
Far more than all the world beside:
Her ancient mint with naught else in't,
Is all her wealth, and power, and pride.
Her ancient flag is all a rag,
So oft in battle bloody, oh!
Now well I think her blood is ink,
And rags her soul and body, oh!

133

V

Beneath that rag, our ancient flag,
We'll draw for rags our old claymore:
Our arrows still, with gray goose quill
Well fledged and tipped, in showers we'll pour:
Our ink we'll shed, both black and red,
In strokes, and points, and dashes, oh!
Ere laws purloin our native coin,
And turn it all to ashes, oh!

VI

The poorest rats of all the earth,
Were ragged Scots in days of yore,
Till paper coining's happy birth,
Made cash of all the rags they wore;
Though but the shade of smoke, 'tis plain,
Said cash is Scotland's glory, oh!
To make it real rags again
Would be a tragic story, oh!

VII

What Scot would tack in herring smack,
His living from the deep to snatch,
Without a ragman at his back
To take percentage on his catch?
Who thinks that gold a place would hold
On Scotland's soil a minute, oh!
Unless of rag we make a bag
That's full with nothing in it, oh!

134

VIII

Our Charley lad we bought and sold,
But we've no Charley now to sell:
Unless the De'il should rain up gold,
Where Scots can get it, who can tell?
The English loons have silver spoons,
And golden watches bonnie, oh!
But we'll have nought that's worth a groat,
Without our paper money, oh!

Grand Chorus of Scotchmen.
Then up claymore and down with gun,
And up with promises to pay,
And down with every Saxon's son,
That threatens us with reckoning day.
To promise aye, and never pay,
We've sworn by Scotland's fiddle, oh!
Who calls a Scot “to cash his not”
We'll cut him through the middle, oh!

University of Virginia Library

CALEDONIAN WAR WHOOP

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