THE LUNNON TWANG.
I've heard a Frenchman wag his tongue Wi' unco din an' rattle, An', 'faith, my vera lugs hae sung Wi' listenin' tae his prattle; But French is no the worst of a' In point o' noise an' clang, man; There's ane that beats it far awa', And that's the Lunnon twang, man.
You wadna think, within this land, That folk could talk sae queerly, But, sure as Death, tae understand The callants beats me fairly. An', 'faith, 'tis little gude their schules Can teach them, as ye'll see, man, For—wad ye credit it?—the fules Can scarcely follow me, man.
An' yet, tae gie the deils their due, (An' little praise they're worth, man,) They seem tae ken, I kenna hoo. That I come frae the Nor-r-rth, man! They maun be clever, for ye ken There's nought tae tell the chiels, man: I'm jist like a' the ither men That hail frae Galashiels, man.
But oh! I'm fain tae see again The bonny hills an' heather! Twa days, and ne'er a drap o' rain— Sic awfu' drouthy weather! But eh! I doubt the Gala boys Will laugh when hame I gang, man, For oo! I'm awfu' feared my voice Has ta'en the Lunnon twang, man!