A GROWL FROM THE SCOTTISH LION.
It was the auld Scottish Lion,
I heard him growlin' sair;
"Deil ha'et, gin I pit up wi'
Siccan treatment ony mair.
"Oh, ance my mane was winsome:
And oh! but my tail was lang;
But on them baith is scorn and scaith,
From Southron deeds of wrang!
"Now up and ride, Laird Eglinton,
That was sae stout in stour,
That when it rainit cats and dogs,
Aye jousted through the shower.
"Now, horse! my provosts and baillies,
And convener of the Trades,
Dean o' Guild, and maister o' Merchants,
The auld Lion craves your aids.
"It's up on your ain middens,
My cocks, sae croose to craw,
And gar play your Scottish fiddles,
And your Scottish bag-pipes blaw.
"And they hae ta'en and sworn an aith—
An aith both strang and true—
That for the auld Lion o' Scotland
They will win back his due.
"I've a sair, sair pain in my belly,
And a sair catch in my breath;
Ye'll mind it was English misdoings
That brocht me to my death.
"And ye've aye uphauld, sae bluff and bauld,
My right my tail to wag,
Aboon the pock-puddins' Lion
Upon the Scottish flag.
"Ye'll to the Prince Royal o' Scotland—
Him the Southrons misca's 'Wales,'
And ask him what gars his household
Wear breeks aboot their tails?
"Why a Scots' prince hasna aboot him
Scots' men and places got,
A' things Scots, but the wages, whilk should be
Punds sterlin', and no punds Scot.
"Say there's a keeper o' the swans
Whose office ocht to cease,
Or Scotland behoves a keeper too,
To keep her Solan geese.
"There's the maister o' the music,
That the music maks ava',
For his thousand puns' a year
I trow he were best awa'.
"Or if no that Scotland ocht to brink
Her music-maister too,
Wi' bagpipe and Scotch fiddle
We'll find him wark to do.
"And they have put down the Scottish mint,
Nae money noo mak' we,
I trow they hae sent to Brummagem
To coin the Scots' bawbee!
"And we hae Parliament Members eneuch
Our votes wi' place to buy;
There's many a gude job in England,
But nae Scots' thumb in the pie.
"And Holyrood Park is a bonny place,
But 'tis nae place for me and you;
And the Embro' baillies lets it
For a kailyard oot to feu.
"And oh, 'tis in geography
We're driven to the wa'—
Till in the map o' Europe
We're hard to find ava';
"And when a Scotsman's to be hung
(E'en Scotland rogues will plague)
There's nae a Scottish hangman to fit
The noose about his craig.
"Now, well-a-day, and wae is me,
For the days of auld lang syne,
When wi' England we had nocht to do
Save liftin' o' her kine!
"The Lion o' a kingdom small
I trow I'd suner be,
Than the Lion of an empire vast
When there's ither there than me."