Classic Poem

AULD S COTLAND ! hoo I lo'e the name,
My guid auld-fashion'd mither!
It mauna be thy kin'ly bairns
Should tine thee a' thegither.
Oh! weel I like ilk thing o' thine —
Thy cozy theekit dwallin's,
Thy bare-fit lassies, tosh an' trig —
Thy canny, clever callans.

Thy misty hills are dear to me —
Ilk glen an' bosky dingle;
The lanely loch, on whilk the lichts
An' dancin' shadows mingle;
The muirlan' burnie, purple-fringed
Wi' hinny-scented heather,
Whaur gowden king-cups blink aneath
The breckan's waving feather.

Nae, mither! nae; we maunna pairt!
E'en tho' they say thou's deein';
That speech is gaun, they say thy face
We'll sune nae mair be seein'.
But oh! I fear the Doric's gaun,
For, mang baith auld an' young,
There's mony noo that canna read
Their printit mither tongue.

I like the English tongue fu' well
In writin' an' in readin';
But 'tween the English an' the Scotch
There's lack o' truth an' breedin'
It's England's meteor flag that burns
Abune oor battle plains;
Oor victories, baith by sea an' lan',
It's England aye that gains.

It's England mak's an' signs the peace
Whan nations tire o' fechtin';
Whan Europe's balance gangs agee
She trims the scales for wechtin'
An' England laughs, as well she may —
The Wallace touir at Stirlin'
Maun tapless stan', like pillar'd saut,
Until the maiks are birlin'.

An', mither, something's in the win'
Wull gar ye raise yer bristles;
There's some wad plant in a' yer kirks
The big kist fu' o' whistles
Leuk up frae oot yer bluidy graves,
Ye martyr'd Covenanters,
Wha raised the psaum in cave and glen,
An' bann'd baith pipes and chanters.

It's no the kittlin' o' the ear,
The thrillin' o' the sense,
The tearfu' e'e, an' upturn'd look,
In rapture maist intense;
The holy music Scotlan' craves
Are strains devotion brings
Warm frae the heart, whan God's ain han'
Sweeps ower the dinlin' strings.