Classic Poem

O Bonnie lad wi' the kilt sae braw
An' tossel 't sporran swingin' —
Wi' dirk at the hip, an' ribbons rid;
Ye set my hert a-singin'.

What are ye like that 's brave an' fine! —
The Muir-cock or the Eagle?
Your bonnet sets just like a comb,
Your pride is like the deevil!

Och! sair I grudge ye to the trenches, lad:
Few flesh an' bane are like ye;
Your knees are hard, your e'en are clean —
For you I 'd fecht — God strike me!

Ye wanton rogue! but I love your swing,
An' weel I guess your fettle!
For a swatch o' you I 'd face my bit —
Proud to beget sic metal.

But there he goes; wi' never a glance:
To that damned hell in Flanders.
My gift is nocht — his seed gangs waste —
Curse on the cause that squanders!

Squanders the wealth o' Scotland's kind,
In their high day and flower,
While we wha hae the grace to save
Stand Kirk-denied Love's dower.