Does haughty Gaul invasion threat?
Then let the loons beware, Sir,
There’s wooden walls upon our seas,
And volunteers on shore, Sir!
The Nith shall run to Corsincon,
And Criffel sink in Solway,
Ere we permit a foreign foe
On British ground to rally!
O let us not, like snarling tykes,
In wrangling be divided,
Till, slap! come in an unco loun,
And wi’ a rung decide it!
Be Britain still to Britain true,
Amang oursels united!
For never but by British hands
Maun British wrangs be righted!
The kettle o’ the Kirk and State,
Perhaps a clout may fail in’t;
But Deil a foreign tinkler loon
Shall ever ca’ a nail in’t!
Our fathers’ blude the kettle bought,
And wha wad dare to spoil it,
By Heav’ns! the sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil it!
The wretch that wad a tyrant own,
And the wretch, his true-sworn brother,
Who would set the mob above the throne,
May they be damned together!
Who will not sing ‘God save the King,’
Shall hang as high’s the steeple;
But while we sing ‘God Save the King,’
We’ll ne’er forget the People!
Robert Burns.
CXXXIV
THEIR GROVES O’ SWEET MYRTLE
Their groves o’ sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume!
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o’ green breckan,
Wi’ the burn stealing under the lang, yellow broom;
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly, unseen;
For there, lightly tripping amang the white flowers,
A-list’ning the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.
Tho’ rich is the breeze in their gay, sunny vallies,
And cauld Caledonia’s blast on the wave,
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace,
What are they?—the haunt of the tyrant and slave!
The slave’s spicy forests and gold-bubbling fountains
The brave Caledonian views wi’ disdain:
He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,
Save Love’s willing fetters—the chains o’ his Jean.
Robert Burns.