Manifesto: Gin Nae Us, Whae?

Albert Kirk Jr

The seemetry o leids is fou

O tungs that dee'd sin ilka mou

That kent thir variorums new,

An aulder tae,

Wur steekit sair bi gauts an sous

That wad them fey;

Whaur yince a muckle wheen o fowk

Spak oot thair minds o speils an trokes

In langages that wurnae broke,

Nor needin mendit,

Whan hankit roon thair 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 whae 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 hiv themsels a wappenshaw

Wi ootrels' heids,

An airtit allevolie blaws

Tae mak them deid;

The bodies that they didnae fell

Wid be commaundit lood an snell:

Ye'll fin yersels in leevin HELL,

Ya glaikit chuffs,

Shuid ony o ye croon or yell

Yer weanish buff;

An wi a musket at thair een

They'd thole an rame thair lessons mean

Tae lear the lingo o some queen

They'd niver ken,

An aw the while remainin keen

Thair 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 thair 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 there A fin the wallant ruits,

The bealin maisters skelpin oot

The braith fae bairns tae lea'na doot

That Scots wis wrang:

A babbie's fell beshitten cloot,

An orra slang;

An tho the leid is no tae blame,

Fine English growed her gallant name 

Bi makkin ithers lowe wi shame

Tae speik thair ain,

An aw the while she ruffelt thaim

Tae faw sae fain;

Which 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 staun 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 haun

An forrit gang.