For Mac’s sake, drap this balaclava
bombs guns pikitweer palaver!
Wid ye Picts an Gaels nae rather
quit this theatre
an ilk o ye become a grafter
for auld Dalriada?
This desert in the saul that’s brocht
fou monie a carle in drouthie flocht,
aal shidderin an shammlie-hocht
tae his bullet-rived knees,
this centuries-lang mental fraucht,
maun turn to peace.
An Jock, quit mumpin life’s been hell
sin ye an wifie clanged the bell,
an hou she steals yer ile as well
an the passion’s dried,
git oot the troch an find yersel
anither bride!
A gorgeous fairnytickelt brammer
o a bride wi swuirds o drama
dertin furth frae eyes that clamour
for a crusade,
wi red hair flowin like a banner
in a stormy parade.
Ye henpeckt daftie, dinnae hark
the clashmaclavers in the dark
that whusper in a scunnersome chark
that ye’ll face ruin,
beseekin in a chattert sark
aince freedom’s brewin.
Howk a tunnel o luve ablow
the Straits o Moyle an say hello
tae fair Dalriada jyned, aglow.
Naebodie’s Iscariot.
The Scotsman landit lang ago
in an Irish chariot.
Ye’re puffins frae a Celtic egg
baith cled in the same filibeg,
baith drunk frae the same whiskey keg,
baith fauch as flooer.
An ah wid howp ye’re baith sae gleg,
ye’ll claucht yer oor.
The croun an kirk dae nocht, be shuir,
but shackle ye tae History’s fluir,
face-doon an machtless as a puir
wee butch-hoose pig.
The sceptre-knife, wi bricht allure,
flisks throu yer rig.
Sae, shovel up the priestly slorach
an ilka stang-tailt pushionous golach
swairmin roond it, wash the cockach
nest o queens
richt doon the sheuch, who reive an connach
sair-won beans.
Build yer caipital among
the tailless cats, sae fechtin’s done,
an Scottish eyes will smile whun
yon Irish mouths
can see the high road, wi nocht sung
o faimins or drouths.
