Wednesday, 1 November 2017

Fair fa'

Whin Winter's lips first toucht Autumn's last embrace
An aa the wurld's gein broon an fawn
Ra glints oan esturine mud glaurs gowd
An shag's still hing up wings tae dry
An aabodies aa thirled in bunnets and scairfs
Thirs beasties mair frichtfu' thin carlins ir ghouls abroad

Thon beasties' fair fu ir thir ain import
Thir een na sicht thi slaister they hiv brocht
Whilst hingin fowk fae thir ain mak'd poverty tree,
Yit tellin fowk "It wisnas me, yon big boy banker makit me dae it, thin ran awa."
Thin winnae hear tell quhit thir murdrus stramash hae dun tae innocents
Bit jist lik Herod, dinnae gie a dokey.

Whar's Alba's gain gin thi Englis beastie imperial?
Far oot aa sicht forebye ye can crie, "Britain's Glory"
Yon's aa for England, nane's cummin here.
"Cry Harry for England and St George!"; yon Scotch ir jist rebels tae crush.
Once mair tae Culloden Field and pile Scotch deid anent the breach
Is England's end, an England's will be done.

Epilogue

Fair fa yir honest sonsie face,
O fowk wha hae Englis TV news graced
Ablins thon painch an tripe whit's hurl'd at Scotia's face
Ye believe; weel, it's beyont ma kenning.
Whin wull thi scales fa frae yer een
Saes ye hae sicht o' thir Red Herring?