The Scot.

That no Scotsman is perfect, we freely confess,
Nor has been since the time of the fall;
Yet we think, notwithstanding and nevertheless,
He is "nae sheep-shank bane," after all.
"Sic excellent pairts" as he has will atone
For the lack of a tittle or jot;
And, although we don't boast, it is very well known
For some things you must go to a Scot.
If you want a sweet song that comes straight from the heart
Of a man who had few for his peers,
An approved son of genius and master of art.
And a lover, with laughter and tears;
A song that gives honor to personal worth,
And ennobles the lowliest lot,
And makes brothers of all who inhabit the earth;
You must go "for a' that" to a Scot.
If you want a good story, entrancingly told,
By a genuine king of the pen,
A right royal dispenser of things new and old,
And a faithful portrayer of men;
A tale that will brighten your work and your play,
And will do what some others do not, -
Give you knowledge and wisdom and heart for the fray;
You will go to Sir Walter, the Scot.
If you want the high spirit that scorns to make truce
With a foeman on suppliant knee,
The untameable will of a Wallace or Bruce,
Or the dash of a Bonnie Dundee;
Fierce courage that nothing on earth can subdue,
Sense of honor that shrinks from a blot,
Inexhaustible loyalty, loving and true,
You will find them to-day in a Scot.
If you want an intense love of country and kin,
An attachment as tender as strong,
That can gar the blood leap when the pipers begin,
And the tear start at sound of a song;
A grand patriotic devotion and pride,
That makes sanctified ground of the spot
Where a Scotsman for freedom has suffered and died;
You will find what you want in a Scot.
If you want a hale-bodied and clear-headed chiel,
Independent and honest and good,
With a hand that can do and a heart that can feel,
And tenacious of purpose - and shrewd;
Whose thrift makes the face of prosperity smile,
Who's contented with what he has got,
But is ready and careful to add to his pile;
You may find what you want in a Scot.
Gin ye wush a douce body, auldfarrant and gash,
Unco' waukrife and couthie and braw,
Ower eydent wi' daft clishmaclavers to fash,
Or to thole whigmaleeries ava;
Mak's nae collieshangie wad fley a bit flee,
But is siccer and dour as a stot;
Tak's the scone and the kebbuck and carries the gree;
Ye'll be spierin', gude faith! for a Scot.