Poems, on sacred and other subjects and songs, humorous and sentimental: By the late William Watt. Third edition of the songs only--with additional songs |
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ON THE Decay of the Scottish Language & Manners. |
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 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
27
ON THE Decay of the Scottish Language & Manners.
Ye wha claim Scotland for your Mither,
And Independence ca' your Faither,
And hail, for your leal elder Brither,
Fidelity,
Join socially wi' ane anither,
To mourn wi' me.
And Independence ca' your Faither,
And hail, for your leal elder Brither,
Fidelity,
Join socially wi' ane anither,
To mourn wi' me.
Tis not the loss o' warldly gain,
(The miser's god, his joy and pain,)
That gars me pour my doolfu' main,
Wi' harp unstrung,
But 'cause they've scorn'd frae hill and plain
Our mither tongue.
(The miser's god, his joy and pain,)
That gars me pour my doolfu' main,
Wi' harp unstrung,
But 'cause they've scorn'd frae hill and plain
Our mither tongue.
Waeworth the day! trade's knavish face
First glintit on our native place,
And banish'd the expressive grace
O' words sae pawky,
And planted a base mongrel race,
No half sae knacky.
First glintit on our native place,
And banish'd the expressive grace
O' words sae pawky,
And planted a base mongrel race,
No half sae knacky.
The muse-inspired bard dare scarce
Lilt owre a lay in Scottish verse;
The savage sounds their sauls wad pierce
Wi' siccan force,
They'd stap their lugs, and swear 'twas Erse
Or mongrel Norse.
Lilt owre a lay in Scottish verse;
The savage sounds their sauls wad pierce
Wi' siccan force,
They'd stap their lugs, and swear 'twas Erse
Or mongrel Norse.
Puir doitit fuils, are ye sae mean
As 'gainst true honour steek your een?
Ye whase forbears ha'e aften seen
War's field wi' Wallace;
Wha did o' yon invaders clean
Our hills and vallies.
As 'gainst true honour steek your een?
Ye whase forbears ha'e aften seen
War's field wi' Wallace;
Wha did o' yon invaders clean
Our hills and vallies.
Will ye, oh snoolt degenerate race,
Wear naething but a Scotsman's face?
Can freedom mark nae kindred trace
Within your heart,
That should hae been her resting place,
Unstain'd by art?
Wear naething but a Scotsman's face?
Can freedom mark nae kindred trace
Within your heart,
That should hae been her resting place,
Unstain'd by art?
28
For siccan deeds sair should ye mourn,
And back to your allegiance turn,
And thae landlouper manners spurn
Ye're now pursuin',
Before in dark destruction's urn
They seal your ruin.
And back to your allegiance turn,
And thae landlouper manners spurn
Ye're now pursuin',
Before in dark destruction's urn
They seal your ruin.
How sweet langsyne the time did glide,
When tongue and heart gaed side by side,
Before the accursed glare o' pride
Gleam'd owre the bent,
When on ilk glen and mountain wide
Smiled blithe content.
When tongue and heart gaed side by side,
Before the accursed glare o' pride
Gleam'd owre the bent,
When on ilk glen and mountain wide
Smiled blithe content.
Folk lived at ease, and ne'er thocht lang;
Ambition shot nae venom'd stang;
The younkers struck the lover's sang
Wi' bosoms licht,
And parent's souls wi' pleasure rang
To see them richt.
Ambition shot nae venom'd stang;
The younkers struck the lover's sang
Wi' bosoms licht,
And parent's souls wi' pleasure rang
To see them richt.
Then honest labour wasna slichted,
Nor Scotland left in want benichted
By vagrant gentry, wha hae tichted
Taxation's ban's,
And harriet us, though they ha'e righted
A' foreign lan's.
Nor Scotland left in want benichted
By vagrant gentry, wha hae tichted
Taxation's ban's,
And harriet us, though they ha'e righted
A' foreign lan's.
But now, alake! a' comfort's gane;
Vice owre baith rich and poor doth reign;
Baith priests and laity sair may grane
In sackcloth weed;
Auld Scotland's devour'd, ne'er again
To raise her head!
Vice owre baith rich and poor doth reign;
Baith priests and laity sair may grane
In sackcloth weed;
Auld Scotland's devour'd, ne'er again
To raise her head!
Nae mair can sage historians tell
How Scotland's bairns wi' freedom dwell,
For now the darin' thistle fell
Hings doun its head;
And her sweet purple heather bell
Is wallowt dead.
How Scotland's bairns wi' freedom dwell,
For now the darin' thistle fell
Hings doun its head;
And her sweet purple heather bell
Is wallowt dead.
Nae mair can bards her praises sing
Whase fame ance far and near did ring;
The harp's untuned in ilka string
For her misdeeds,
And her sweet minstrels doolfu' hing
Unlaurell'd heads.
Whase fame ance far and near did ring;
The harp's untuned in ilka string
For her misdeeds,
And her sweet minstrels doolfu' hing
Unlaurell'd heads.
| Poems, on sacred and other subjects | |