And one other....
Fareweel, fareweel my native hame,
Thy lonely glens an' heath-clad mountains,
Fareweel thy fields o' storied fame,
Thy leafy shaws an' sparkling fountains,
Nae mair I'll climb the Pentland's steep,
Nor wander by the Esk's clear river,
I seek a hame far o'er the deep,
My native land, fareweel forever.
Thou land wi' love and freedom crown'd,
In ilk wee cot an' lordly dwellin',
May manly hearted youths be found,
And maids in ev'ry grace excellin'.
The land where Bruce and Wallace wight,
For freedom fought in days o' danger,
Never crouch'd to proud usurpin' right.
But foremost stood, wrongs stern avenger.
Tho' far frae thee, my native shore,
An' toss'd on life's tempestuous ocean;
My heart, aye Scottish to the core,
Shall cling to thee wi' warm devotion,
An' while the wavin' heather grows,
An' onward rows the windin' river,
The toast be Scotland's broomy knowes,
Her mountains, rocks, an' glens forever.
And afore we return to yon luverly thread that is our hame, we must, must, must, raise a glass of fine single malt in toast to the haggis:
Address to a Haggis
Robert Burns
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the Puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.
2. The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
3. His knife see Rustic-labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!
4. Then, horn for horn they stretch an' strive,
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit hums.
5. Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad stow a sow,
Or fricasee was mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?
6. Poor devil! See him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro' bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
7. But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.
8. Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware,
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!
It's not my "native shore," but I loved Scotland.
The toast be Scotland's broomy knowes,
Her mountains, rocks, an' glens forever
Alba gu brath!! (Scotland forever!)