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.









© Gammon 2020
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