Auld Scotlan' gangs yirmin an' chanerin' alane;
She wunners whaur a' her trig lassocks ha'e gane;
She's trampit the kintra, an' socht thro' the toons,
An' fan' the fule hizzies-blawn oot like balloons!
Can they be my lassocks-ance cozie an' cosh,
Weel shapit, weel happit-sae stumpy an' tosh?
Twa coats an' a toush, or a goon, ye may ween,
Were boukie aneuch, wi' what nature had gi'en.
They're aye i' my e'e, an' they're aye i' my gate-
At the kirk I am chirtit maist oot o' my seat;
Whan caul', tae the ingle I needna gae ben,
If Kate an' her crinoline's on the fire-en'.
Whan a lad wi' a lassie forgethers yenoo,
It's no her bricht een, or her rosie wee mou',
Her snod cockernony, waist jimpy an' fine,
That first tak's his e'e-it's the big crinoline!
Tae sae that he likes it would jist be a lee-
But ye ken that the big thing attracts aye the wee-
An' the lass that cares nocht 'bout her heart an' her heid,
Tak's care that her crinoline's weel spread abreed.
An' say, if dame Nature wad gi'e at her birth,
Tae ilka wee lassie that's born on the yirth,
A bouk o' her ain, that grew bigger ilk year,
Ye'd no be sae prood o' the giftie I fear.
When a widow was burnt i' the Indian suttees,
Tae honour the dead, and the fause gods tae please,
The puir heathen body I'm pincht tae accuse,
Whan I read o' they crinoline deaths i' the news.
Sae aff wi' the whalebone, the cane, an' the steel!
I likna the crinoline, trouth an' atweel;
It's fule-like an' fashous, it's cheatrie an' boss-
I wad jist ha'e yere cleedin' bien, genty, an' doss.