Classic Poem

W H en first the Scottish War began
The English man, we did trepan, with Pellit and Pike,
The bonny blythe and cunning Scot
Had then a Plot, which they did not, well smell, it's like;
Although he could neither write, nor read,
Yet our General Lashly cross'd the Tweed
With his gay gangh of Blew-caps all,
And we marcht with our Generall;
We took New-castle in a trice,
But we thought it had been Paradice,
They did look all so bonny and gay,
Till we took all their Pillage away.

Then did we streight to plundering fall
Of great and small, for were all most valiant that day;
And Jinny in her Satten Gown the best in Town,
From Heel to Crown was gallant and gay;
Our silks and sweets made such a smother,
Next day we knew not one another:
For Jockic did never so shine,
And Jinny was never so fine:
A geud faith a gat a ged Beaver then,
But it's beat into a Blew-cap agen
By a Redcoat, that did still cry, Rag,
And a red snowt, a the Deel'aw the Crag.

The English raised an Army streight
With mickle state, and we did wate to face them as well;
Then every valiant Musquet man put fire in pan,
And we began to lace them as well;
But before the Sparks were made a Cole,
They did every man pay for his Pole:
Then their bought Land we lent them agen,
Into Scotland we went with our men;
We were paid by all, both Peasant and Prince,
But I think we have soundly paid for it since,
For our Silver is wasted, Sir, all,
And our Silks hang in Westminster Hall.

The Godly Presbyterian, that holy man,
The War began with Bishop and King,
Where we like Waiters at a Feast
But not the least of all the guest, must dish up the thing,
We did take a Covenant to pull down
The Cross, the Crosier, and the Crown,
With the Rochet the Bishop did bear.
And the Smock that his Chaplain did wear:
But now the Covenant's gone to wrack,
They say, it looks like an old Almanack,
For Jockie is grown out of date,
And Jinny is thrown out of late.

I must confesse the holy firk did only work
Upon our Kirk for silver and meat,
Which made us come with aw our broods,
Venter our bloods for aw your goods, to pilfer & cheat;
But we see what covetousness doth bring,
For we lost our selves when we sold our King;
And alack now and welly we cry,
Our backs mow and bellies must dye:
We fought for food, and not vain-glory,
And so there's an end of a Scottish mans Story;
I curse all your Silver and Gold,
Aw the worst tale that ever was told.