AULD SCOTLAND! 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON MONSIEUR'S DEPARTURE by ELIZABETH I SONNET: THE HUMAN SEASONS by JOHN KEATS A QUOI BON DIRE by CHARLOTTE MEW CATHOLIC HYMN by EDGAR ALLAN POE APRIL, FR. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE MIRACLES by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH LINES TO ROBERT ALDERSON UPON HIS DEPARTURE FROM WARRINGTON by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |