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Be Waukrife, Scotland!
by W D Cocker


Click here to listen to this in RealAudio read by Marilyn P Wright

This poem appeared in the March 1931 issue of the Scots Independent. W D Cocker was born in Glasgow and worked there as a jounalist on the Daily Record, but his poems mostly evoke the Stirlingshire farms of his mother's family.

 
 
                                        Wae's me ! auld Scotland's in a dwam ;
                                            The Lion Rampant's lost his smeddum,
                                        An' coories like a frichtit lamb,
                                            Puir dwaibly cratur, wha would dread 'm ?
 
                                        Be waukrife, Scotland ! Up an' roar,
                                            An' get ye into fechtin' fettle ;
                                        Dinna be blate, in days o' yore
                                            Ye were na feart to show your mettle.
 
                                        Ower lang ye've tholed the Saxon rule,
                                            A "Union" that but meant suppression,
                                        Ye've learned, in bitter days o' dool,
                                            What England gets by that concession.
 
                                        They've ryped your pooch, an' taxed ye sair,
                                            They've taen the last bite frae your mooth ;
                                        They've strippit puir auld Scotland bare,
                                            An' spent the siller in the sooth.
 
                                        Wi' alien croods your toons are thrang,
                                            Your industries hae dwined awa',
                                        Your sons ayont the seas maun gang,
                                            Or thowless-like the "dole" maun draw.
 
                                        An' what's cam' ower the glens an' hills,
                                            Whaur bonnie crofts the e'e did cheer ?
                                        To mak' a sport for feckless fules
                                            They've laid bare for droves o' deer.
 
                                        Gude kens, we wish the Empire weel,
                                            We'll no' ding doon the Constitution,
                                        Gin we're respeckit - wha the deil
                                            Thinks Scotland's sons want Revolution ?
 
                                        But yet oor ain affairs we'll redd,
                                            An' guide oorsels. Then dinna swither,
                                        By Wallace an' the bluid he shed,
                                            For Scotland's richts, let's staun thegither !

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