MANIFESTO
Manifesto: Gin Nae Us, Whae?
Albert Kirk Jr
The seemetry o leids is fou
O tungs that deed sin ilka mou
That kent thir variorums new,
An aulder tae,
Wur steekit sair by gauts an sous
That wad them fey;
Whaur yince a muckle wheen o fowk
Spak oot thir minds o speils an trokes
In langages that wurnae broke,
Nor needin mendit,
Whan hankit roon thir craigs a yoke
They fund them endit;
A threap ye maun spare noo a thocht
Aboot hou sic ill deeds wur wrocht
Upon puir wichts that wantit nocht
But saucht an scowth,
An got insteid the aucht nor ocht
O thirldom dowth:
It stertit wi a troup or twa,
A thoosan sodgers coorse an raw,
Whae'd hae thirsels a wappenshaw
Wi ootrels' heids,
An airtit allevolie blaws
Tae mak them deid;
The bodies that they didnae fell
Wad be commaundit lood an snell:
Ye'll find yersels in leevin HELL,
Ya glaikit chuffs,
Shoud ony o ye croon or yell
Yer weanish buff;
An wi a musket at thir een
They'd thole an rame thir lessons mean
Tae lear the lingo o some queen
They'd niver ken,
An aw the while remainin keen
Thir wirds tae fend.
But whit's this got tae dae wi me?
A scriever wioot pedigree
Whae scraffles wi a year o dree
Tae mak a rhyme,
An cannae even get ma breed
Tae gie it time?
Sin English, tho A scrieve it weel,
Richt deep inouth ma hert A feel
She disnae need anither chiel
Tae slock her drouth,
Thir's gytes galore whae gowp an dreel
Tae stowe her mooth;
An juist like weans come oot thir maw,
Whae hid a maw hersel an aw,
Aff back tae Eve ahint the Faw
Wi dochters three,
We makars wirth wur saut maun draw
Wur verses' tree;
An thare A find the wallant ruits,
The bealin maisters skelpin oot
The braith fae bairns tae leana doot
That Scots wis wrang:
A babbie's fell beshitten cloot,
A orra slang;
An tho the leid is no tae blame,
Fine English growed her gallant name
By makkin ithers lowe wi shame
Tae speik thir ain,
An aw the while she ruffelt thaim
Tae faw sae fain;
Whilk gars me tak ma jonick vou:
A'm jinin wi the fecht the noo
Tae gie braw Scots a cultur fou
O modren lists,
Wi quairs that dinnae pish richt throu
The Makars' kists;
A'll staund amang the yaird o banes
Wi siclik freends or aw alane
An tell the warld that whit A'm daein
Is braw an chief,
An isnae duin tae siller gain
Nor ettle grief;
For gin nae us, syne whae will awn
The darg tae mak wur tung haud gaun?
It's no wur ilk whae cangle on
An weesht we'd hang;
It's thee an me, sae tak ma haund
An forrit gang.