Nae fie in times a war an' financial exigency
tae hear yon scunner roar oot his ain bile.
Ilka the fear marks oot the cauf forby
The mistakes a' his ain fowk he seeks to force upon anither.
By fit richt hae he to talk?
For aye his quine, the blessed Margeret,
Presumed tae lecture Scots?
An' that impiety took place wi'in a Kirk!
In fit miekle mind can aye hatred o' five million hide?
Fae meikle nonesense fit muckle rang and richt may find.
An' a' we ken the guineas stamp wiz but the rank
forby the gaud hae gone awry.
An' aye the list is muckle lang fae a' hae trod on Scotland's dignity
fae England's metropolitan toon.
Noo we ken the truth:
Yon portly scunner hae nicht ony word tae say
Scots a' nae sicht rustic fowk