O bonnie lad wi’ the kilt sae braw
An’ tossel’t sporran swingin’ –
Wi’ dirk at the hip, an’ ribbons rid;
Ye set my hert a-singin’.
What are ye like that’s brave an’ fine! –
The Muir-cock or the Eagle?
Your bonnet sets just like a comb,
Your pride is like the deevil!
Och! Sair I grudge ye to the trenches, lad:
Few flesh an’ bane are like ye;
Your knees are hard, your e’en are clean –
For you I’d fecht – God strike me!
Ye wanton rogue! but I love your swing,
An’ weel I guess your fettle!
For a swatch o’ you I’d face my bit –
Proud to beget sic metal.
But there he goes; wi’ never a glance:
To that damned hell in Flanders.
My gift is nocht – his seed gangs waste –
Curse on the cause that squanders!
Squanders the wealth of Scotland’s kind,
In their high day and flower,
While we wha hae the grace to save
Stand Kirk-denied Love’s dower.