A Farmer’s Ditty

What’s a’ this bustle? What this thrang is?

Why, a live laird haes cam’ amang us,

On ’onest folk tae cast reflections,

An’ tell o’ a’ gran connections.

They drew him in, puir simple bodies,

Yok’d tae his coach like lang-ear’d cuddies;

You’ll aye get some to play the Donkey,

An’ dae the wark o’ Sneakin’ Flunkey —

An’ Flunkey shure enough he’d mak’ them,

If for a Member they wud tak’ him;

But let him dae whate’r he may,

We’ve had our fill o’ Castlereagh,

For in an age, ane’s quite enough,

We want nae mair sic middlin’ stuff.

Then let us wark baith heart an’ han’,

An’ pit in sure the proper man,

Wha kens our wants an’ wull redress them,

As surely as we can express them.

But dinna min’ this lordling’s style,

Wha’d trample ye wae folk like Lyle,

Or wae a MAXWELL on your back,

Wud drive ye on like ony Hack.

Mulholland, tae, wha’d stan your freen,

As mony a farmer man haes seen.

Perhaps a BATESON’S card he’d play,

Or wae DELACHEROIS wun the day;

But no, the last’s a dirty trick,

Which in his throat a hope wull stick,

Till it’s pu’ed oot, that’ll no be soon,

For ne’er licht saw, a greater loon;

An’ shair tae pot some day wull go,

In company wi’ his freen, Auld Poe,

Wha’d sweer clear oot that black was blue,

Or a Sou’s lug a horse’s shoe.

These are the craters form his squad —

Wha wud support him? “Lord Begad.”

Then up like men, whatever comes,

Fecht for your weans, your wives, your homes,

Nor cease till victory proclaims

That ANDREWS is the name of names.