Classic Poem

Wha the deil hae we gotten for a king,
But a wee, wee German lairdie?
And, when we gaed to bring him hame,
He was delving in his yardie;
Sheughing kail and laying leeks,
But the hose and but the breeks;
And up his beggar duds he cleeks—
This wee, wee German lairdie.

And he's clapt doun in our guidman's chair,
The wee, wee German lairdie;
And he's brought fouth o' foreign trash
And dibbled them in his yardie.
He's pu'd the rose o' English loons,
And broken the harp o' Irish clowns;
But our thistle taps will jag his thumbs—
This wee, wee German lairdie.

Come up amang our Highland hills,
Thou wee, wee German lairdie,
And see how the Stuarts' lang-kail thrive
They dibbled in our yardie;
And if a stock ye dare to pu',
Or haud the yoking o' a plough,
We'll break your sceptre ower your mou',
Thou wee bit German lairdie.

Our hills are steep, our glens are deep,
Nae fitting for a yardie;
And our Norland thistles winna pu',
Thou wee bit German lairdie;
And we've the trenching blades o' weir,
Was prune ye o' your German gear—
We'll pass ye 'neath the claymore's shear,
Thou feckless German lairdie!

Auld Scotland, thou'rt ower cauld a hole
For nursin' siccan vermin;
But the very dogs o' England's court
They bark and howl in German.
Then keep thy dibble in thy ain hand,
Thy spade but and thy hardie;
For wha the deil now claims your land,
But a wee, wee German lairdie?