Quiet an' cozie, but an' ben,
Sittin' at my ain fire-en',
On the twa-leav'd volume porin',
News baith hame an' foreign storin',
Owre them thinkin', wonnerin', grievin',
Hech, sirs! what a warl' we leeve in!
There's that restless ghaist Reform,
Like a chronic thunner-storm
Roun' the sky politic rummlin',
Gloomin', flashin', ever grummlin'-
Ever mair the auld, auld story,
Nocht worth while frae Whig or Tory.
Shaftesbury! thee oor hearts are thankin'
Noo, whan slavery's chains are clankin',
No on niggers in the south,
But on gangs o' English youth-
Serfs wha suffer, sin, an' toil,
On free Englan's happy soil;
In their cause, thou lead'st the van,
Christian! true, brave Englishman!
Oh! the horrors, crimes, an' pain,
That our social system stain!
Drink's amaist the source o' a'
The countless ills that life befa';
Murders, suicides, an' death,
To the saul an' body baith;
Frae this burnin' scourge we shrink,
Britain's shame, accursèd drink!
Say, has England's kirk become
Mither nurse to Papal Rome?
For her nursery she caters
Fledglin's frae their 'Alma Maters.'
Kirks they get-O sad reflection!
Sune there's Romish genuflexion-
Altar, can'les, bowin', crossin',
Papistry wi' little glossin'-
Nocht but Romanisèd mummery.
Ah, this ritualistic flummery!
Renegades-I'd gar them 'lop
Hame to Rome an' faither Pope.
Lang there's been a great ado-
Muckle cry, an' little woo'-
'Bout the Union o' the Free
Wi' that thrivin' sect U.P.
Shou'd they join, amalagmation
Shou'd be written conflagration.
Head, an' heart, an' een are sair,
Else I micht sae muckle mair-
Speak o' Bismarck's famous needle,
Tell hoo Nap the Russ can wheedle.
He likesna Teuton Will ava;
Nae luve's lost atween the twa.
Will is auld, maun sune decease,
Sae its best to keep the peace-
Die aggression and ambition
At the Paris Exhibition.