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|A simple brief
thought on Scottish
Were the outdated
union not of some very
high value to England and
the English, why would
they fight so to try to
There are only so many
slices to a pie, for one to
have more, another must
Lastly - to those Scottish
"Loyalists" - to whom are
Scots royalty died in the
1700's so it can be no
Scots crown - And
certainly not it appears to
those who came before,
that bled for Scotland
and her freedom !
|In the words
of Burns, as he
wrote from the heart.
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie.
Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour;
See approach proud Edward's power,
Chains and slaverie.
Wha would be a traitor-knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a Slave?
Let him turn and flie:
Wha for Scotland's king and law,
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa',
Let him follow me.
By Oppression's woes and pains!
By your Sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay the proud Usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!
Let us Do - or Die!!!
Choose your destiny.
|There's meadows in Lanark and mountains in Skye,
And pastures in Hielands and Lowlands forbye;
But there's nae greater luck that the heart could desire
Than to herd the fine cattle in bonnie Strathyre.
0' it's up in the morn and awa' to the hill,
When the lang simmer days are sae warm and sae still,
Till the peak 0' Ben Voirlich is girdled wi' fire,
And the evenin' fa's gently on bonnie Strathyre.
Then there's mirth in the sheiling and love in my breast,
When the sun is gane doun and the kye are at rest;
For there's mony a prince wad be proud to aspire
To my winsome wee Maggie, the pride 0' Strathyre.
Her lips are like rowans in ripe simmer seen,
And mild as the starlicht the glint 0' her e'en;
Far sweeter her breath than the scent 0' the briar,
And her voice is sweet music in bonnie Strathyre.
Set Flora by Colin, and Maggie by me,
And we'll dance to the pipes swellin' loudly and free,
Till the moon in the heavens climbing higher and higher
Bids us sleep on fresh brackens in bonnie Strathyre.
Though some in the touns 0' the Lowlands seek fame,
And some will gang sodgerin' far from their hame;
Yet I'll aye herd my cattle, and bigg my ain byre,
And love my ain Maggie in bonnie Strathyre.