Poem by James Macaulay

On the Warlike Preparations of 1787

            Bella, horrida bella!

I.

Ye kintry birkies, round about,
Gin óe can haud a gun, or shoot,
Scour in to Embro’ while ye’re stout,
	An’ fit for ought;
We’re gaun to gi’e the French a clout,
	They lang hae sought.

II.

The petty lads hae ta’en the strum,
Because we winna let them come,
An’ kick the poor Mynheers’s –––;
	Wae worth the trick!
We care na’ for their glunch or gloom,
	A fiddlestick.

III.

They think because our trade’s turn’d thrang, 
To tak it frae us in a bang; 
They’ll fin’ themsells a’ i’ the wrang:
	Gin we be wise, 
We’s put an end, ere it be lang,
	To a’ this noise.

IV.

Gin we come anes to tak the field,
Nae fear but we will mak them yield,
An’ see wha best their arms can wield:
	Whan face to face,
They’ll need to hae some better shield,
	Or yelp for peace.

V.

Some folk that wish weel to our land, 
Hae ta’en the listing craft in hand; 
Come ye to them, an’ dinna stand,
	To tell your tale;
They gat it frae us in command
	To use ye weel.

VI.

Without a moment’s lost, than come, 
An’ tak the siller aff the drum;
An’ dinna think it is a hum,
	For we’re no jesting;  
We mean to gar our faes sing dumb,
	Wi’ a good basting.

VII.

Ye’ll find it worth your while in future, 
To counteract this ill-far’d splutter: 
Gin ye’ve a wife, come aff without her;
	Leave her, at hame, 
To mind the wanes, an’ kirn the butter
	To staigh their wame.

CONTRAIR ORDERS

VIII.

Wharas, by Royal proclamation,
We did let wit to a’ the nation,
To leave a while their occupation,
	An’ fight the French;
They needna sash: – the botheration
	They’re gaun to quench.

IX.

We’s no say what they did design,
By fitting out their ships o’ line; 
But Willie Eden spak his min’
	In sic a tone,
As gart them trow they’d something tine,
	Gin they gaed on: 

X. 

For tho’ they’re wily, slee, an’ sleek,
Fou weel they ken we’ve no to seek 
A tale, whan we’re oblig’d to speak
	Out our desire;
An’ that whare’er we mak a reek,
	There aye some fire.

XI.

Sac thinking’t better to gi’e o’er, 
Than let their callans get a clour, 
They’re put an end to a’ the stour
	That they had rais’d,
An’ we’re nae mair gaun to look sour,
	Or yet bumbaz’d.

XII.

Sae lang may GEORDIE’s sapient reign
Our privileges a’ maintain;
An’ Mars, wi’ a’ his butcher train,
	Aye bide aback; 
An’ never let us o’ our slain
	Be beard to crack!

1. On the Expulsion of the Scots Language
2. To Mr. R***** B****, Ayrshire

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