The poetical works of William Nicholson :: :: University of Virginia Library

Foul fa' thee, vile unchancie docken,
That e'er thou set thy neb in Scotlan';
For now, 'tween sneezin', chowin', smokin',
There's few are free;
And 'tweel thy taste's no sae provokin',
'Tween you and me.

128

Nae doubt, like ither tares o' evil,
Ye've first been dibbled by the devil:
Although ye look sae simply civil,
Yet aft 'tis thee
Joins tattlin' jades in clubs convivial,
To clash and lie.

When autumn, wi' yer yellow tap,
Sits bendin' ripe in Nature's lap,
And farmers, keen to cut the crap,
Lest win's should scud it,
Yet weary wives roun' coals will clap,
By thee deludit.

Last year, ere Meg began a-spinnin'
Her lang projected wab o' linen,
To light her pipe she thought nae sin in—
Teazin' her tow;
Countin' wi' care her costs and winnin',
The stock took low!

Our auld gudeman, sae crouse and canty,
That said his prayers like ony saint aye,
Tinin' his spleuchan i' the pantry—
Now frets and granes,
And banns, and glowers, and girns, and gaunts aye,
And paiks the weans.

When bairns and auld folks gang to rest,
And youngsters roun' the fire are placed,
Ilk ane sits neist wha he likes best,
Amang the kimmers,
To read their fortune's kittle cast,
Amang the em'ers.

129

Then Pate pu's out his sneeshin-mill,
And Peg will hae't again his will,
While she, poor young thing, deems nae ill—
He darklin's grips her:
Some luckless creepie hits her heel,
And backward trips her.

Yestreen, while smokin' by the hallan,
Blythe Bess cam by the sonsie callan,
I fain my chin her cheek wad hauled on—
But nae remead—
She said my breath was past a' tholin':
O! cursed weed.

Thou picklest aft the poor man's penny;
Ye shake the nerves o' waefu' grannie:
'Tis thee maks monie a thriftless mammie,
And loiterin' dad;
And spoils the bluid o' Kate and Annie,
Till beauties fade.

Thou feed'st a batch o' idle loons,
O' chapmen chiels in borough towns;
And cursed excisemen gaun their roun's,
Wi' saucy gnash;
Forbye a batch o' spinster clowns,
And sic like trash.

Wae worth the man first brought you here!
Freedom appalled, looks back wi' fear,
Where cowerin' wretches do you rear,
Baith air and late;
And stifle sorrow's briny tear,
In slavery's state.

130

Had ye been meant for Scotlan's gude,
To clear the min', or clean the bluid,
Ayont the sea ye wadna stood
Where ye're a weed o';
For she supplies ilk herb and food,
That we hae need o'.

But now, we're sae far seen in arts,
And learned the gate to foreign parts,
That countra clauchans now are marts
For foreign dainties;
We've lost our strength and honest hearts,
Sin' ye cam sklent us.

Awa' ye foreign jaups and gills,
Ye've brought auld Scotlan' mony ills;
Her bairns torn down, wi' puffs and pills,
Tryin' to mend them,
Till, totterin' through her heath clad hills
Ye'd hardly ken them:

A poor, degenerate pigmy race,
Wi' tame dependence in their face,
Puffed up wi' pride and pert grimace,
Powdered and frizzed—
Strut turkey-like frae place to place,
Half dead, half crazed!

O, for the days when Wallace bled,
And Scotlan's sons to glory led;
Or when Bruce drew the martial blade,
At Bannockburn:
But, ah, alas! thae days are fled,
Ne'er to return.

131

Let English dine on pork and pease;
Let Welshmen plot and toast their cheese,
Gie Boney paddock fricasees,
And fish to Dutchmen—
But brose, and hame-brewed barley-brees,
Can rear the Scotchman.