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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Were the outdated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.
|O cam' ye here the fight tae shun, or herd the sheep wi'
Or were ye at the Sherra-moor, or did the battle see, man
I saw the battle sair and teuch, and reekin' red ran many a
My heart for fear gae'd sough for sough
Tae hear the thuds and see the cluds
O' Clans frae woods in tartan duds
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three man
The red-coat lads wi' black cockauds to meet them
werenae slow, man
They rush'd and push'd and blood outgush'd, and many a
bouk did fa', man
The great Argyle led on his files, I wat they glanc'd for
They hough'd the Clans like nine-pin kyles
They hack'd and hash'd while braid swords clash'd
And thro' they dash'd and hew'd and smash'd
Till fey men died awa', man
Had ye seen the philibegs wi' skyrin tartan trews, man
When in the teeth they dar'd our Whigs and covenant
Lines extended lang and large, bayonets o'erpower'd the
Thousands hasten'd to the charge
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath
Drew blades o' death till out o' breath
They fled like frighted dows, man
They've lost some gallant gentlemen amang the Hieland
I fear my Lord Panmuir is slain or in his en'mies' hands, man
Now wad ye sing this double flight, some cried for wrang
and some for right
And many bade the warld gudenight
Sae pell, sae mell, wi' muskets knell
Tories fell and Whigs to hell
Flew off in frighted bands, man