Wee, sleekit, brazen, pretentious Tory,
O, what a panic is thy story!
Thou need na start awa' sae hasty,
Wi' twitterin' twaddle!
Tho' I wad lo'e to rin an' chase thee...
Wi' murd'ring pattle!
I'm truly sorry London's dominion,
Has broken oor union's social cohesion,
An' justifies oor ill opinion,
What makes thee startle at me,
Thy poor, Brit-born companion,
And fellow-mortal!
I doubt na whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? Poor beastie, thou maun live!
A few billion barrels o' oor oil, is sma' request;
We'll need jist enough tae fill oor tanks,
An' never miss't!
Thy wee bit Commons housie, in ruin!
It's silly the way the winds are strewin!
An' naething, now, to build a new ane,
O' moneys green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith brisk an' keen!
Thou saw yer power laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin' fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell - till crash!
The cruel referendum past clean thro' thy ego!
That ower grand heap o' stone an' spire,
Has cost us railway, tram and fire!
Now thou's shov'd out, for a' thy trouble,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
In the queenie's castle cauld!
But Davie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' Etonian men gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e,
On past prospects drearie!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I nae longer guess an' fear!
