Tae Ilka Scots Makar an Scriever

Albert Kirk Jr

Ye'll aiblins get telt gin ye furthset a quair

That whit ye've come up wi is orra an rare,

An steuchs lik a hantle o keech on yer shuin,

An sair black-affronts aw yer kintra an kin;

They'll knap that the buff o the sheuch isnae richt

Tae rede aw the trochs an the upsteerin hichts

O ilka fell wanhap or sonse that ye've kent,

An ainlie braid English will dae for thon end;

They'll threap syne that Burns an MacDiarmid ur nocht

But fickles tae sussie a dominie's thochts,

An naeb'die forby speiks lik thon eldern beasts,

Sae sneck up yer geggie an gromish yer wheesht!

Weel A've got twa wirds for tae skair wi sic loons:

FUCK YE! An ilka damnt birse on yer croons!

It isnae oor haundlin tae mak them list clear

Or deek wi thir een appin, olite tae lear,

Sin makars are coosers that willnae be broke

An garrin the leid dae wur darg is oor troke;

Sae takna tent o the A hivnae-hurders,

Bealin-daft dunderheids, pauchtie skleff-Yirders;

Fergusson, Lorimer: follae thair licht,

An eik yer ain eldin tae mak it low bricht;

An mak it gey gallus, an siccar an aw,

An mak it sae thrawn that it tichtens thir baws,

An mak it the Deevil tae fley the attacks,

But maist o aw MAK IT, an dinnae haud back.