Another New Song

He swears that he was cleck'd in Fife,
That he's lo'ed Scotland a' his life,
That o'er her cause in every strife
   He'll be the promoter.
An' aff he's set frae Lunnon town
Wi' English law an' English gown,
An' to Auld Reekie he is boun',
   To catch a Scottish voter.

Gae 'wa, Sir John, it winna do -
We're o'er deep here for chields like you,
We see a mill-stane through and through -
   We sift each cunning plotter.
An't hadna been to keep your place,
I doubt we ne'er had seen your face,
We understand the kind of grace
   You've done the Scottish voter.

A Scotsman! haith ye're bauld to own't,
Ye've fyled your nest & then you've flown't,
An' never ance looked back upon't,
   Since frae it ye could totter.
The cockney wi' his buttered toast
Has sought us out since you were lost -
I think you scarce your birth should boast
   Before the Scottish voter.

A Scotsman!! wae's me for the same,
I thought that nane that owned the name
Wad heard his kintra urge her claim,
   An' nae assistance brought her.
She asked far less than was her share,
Ae Scotsman's voice put down her prayer,
An can that voice now venture here
   To court a Scottish voter!

You promise foul, you promise fair,
You first are here, and syne ye're there,
Ye're neither fish nor flesh, I swear,
   Ye smell mair like an otter.
The Whigs may play ye as they please,
Across the burn, and i' the breeze,
They'll find you're no the best of' flees
   To catch a Scottish voter.

Then cease to work against the grain,
Put your leg o'er your horse again,
(Lord! it maun be a noble ane,
   A most infernal trotter).
An' if it tak's ye to your hame,
But half as fast as frae't ye came,
Brag safely that you've lost nae time,
   But just the Scottish voter.

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Copyright © 2001, Jack Campin