Whether ye promise to bearer or order;
March, march, Take-rag and Bawbee-tail,
All the Scotch flimsies must over the border:
Vanity you snarl anent
New Act of Parliament,
Bidding you vanish from dairy and “lauder”
Dogs you have had your day,
Down tail and slink away;
You’ll pick no more bones on this side of the border.
Hence to the hills where your fathers stole cattle;