IV.

Old Scotland brags, she kens of rags
Far more than all the world beside :
Her ancient mint with naught else in't,
Is all her wealth, and power, and pride.
Her ancient flag is all a rag,

So oft in battle bloody, oh !
Now well I think her blood is ink,
And rags her soul and body, oh!

V.

Beneath that rig, our ancient flag,

We'll draw for rags our old claymore: Our arrows still, with gray goose quill

Well fledged and tipped, in showers we'll pour : Our ink we'll shed, both black and red,

In strokes, and points, and dashes, oh! Ere laws purloin our native coin,

And turn it all to ashes, oh!

VI.

The poorest rats of all the earth,

Were ragged Scots in days of yore,

Till paper coining's happy birth,

Made cash of all the rags they wore; Though but the shade of smoke, 'tis plain, Said cash is Scotland's glory, oh!

To make it real rags again

Would be a tragic story, oh !

VII.

What Scot would tack in herring smack,
His living from the deep to snatch,
Without a ragman at his back

To take per-centage on his catch?
Who thinks that gold a place would hold
On Scotland's soil a minute, oh!
Unless of rag we make a bag

That's full with nothing in it, oh!

VIII.

Our Charley lad we bought and sold,
But we've no Charley now to sell :
Unless the de'il should rain up gold,
Where Scots can get it, who can tell?
The English loons have silver spoons,
And golden watches bonnie, oh!
But we'll have nought that's worth a groat,
Without our paper money, oh!

IX.

GRAND CHORUS OF SCOTCHMEN.

Then up claymore and down with gun,
And up with promises to pay,
And down with every Saxon's son,

That threatens us with reckoning day.

To promise aye, and never pay,

We've sworn by Scotland's fiddle, oh!
Who calls a Scot "to cash his not"

We'll cut him through the middle, oh!

CHORUS OF SCOTCH ECONOMISTS,

ON A PROSPECT OF SCOTCH BANKS IN ENGLAND.

To the air of The Campbells are coming.

Quickly. He pay? Alack! he is poor.

Falstaff. Look on his face. What call you rich? Let him coin his face.

THE braw lads are coming-Oho! Oho!
The braw lads are coming-Oho! Oho!
The highways they're treadin'

From bonnie Dun-Edin,

With cousins by dozens-Oho! Oho!

No shoon have the braw lads-Oh no! Oh no!

No hose have the braw lads-Oh no! Oh no!

No breeks for the wearing,

No shirts for the airing,

No coin for the bearing-Oh no! Oh no!

Each leaves a braw lassie-Oho! Oho!
Each face is all brassy-Oho! Oho!
They are bound for soft places,
Where coining their faces

Will mend their lean cases-Oho! Oho!

The English they'll settle-Oho! Oho!
They'll harry their metal-Oho! Oho!
They'll coin muckle paper,

They'll make a great vapour,

To their fiddle we'll caper-Oho! Oho!

Come riddle my riddle-Oho! Oho!
The cat and the fiddle-Oho! Oho!
Sing high diddle diddle,

It is the Scotch fiddle,

Then lead down the middle-Oho! Oho!

The cat is the miller-Oho! Oho!

Grinds paper to siller-Oho! Oho!
He plays the Scotch fiddle,

Sing high diddle diddle,

We've riddled the riddle-Oho! Oho!

The English we'll saddle-Oho! Oho!
We'll ride them a-straddle-Oho! Oho!
They beat us in battle,

When money would rattle,

But now they're cur cattle-Oho! Oho!

In parley metallic-Oho! Oho!

They bothered our Gaelic-Oho! Oho!
But with sly disputation,

And rag circulation,

We've mastered their nation-Oho! Oho!

Come, Johnny Bull, hither-Oho! Oho! We'll make you quite lither-Oho! Oho! Come dance for your betters

A hornpipe in fetters,

We'll teach you your letters-Oho! Oho!

Come, sing as we've said it-Oho! Oho! Sing "Free trade and credit"-Oho! Oho!

Sing "Scotch education,"

And "O'er-population,"

And "Wealth of the nation"-Oho! Oho!

Then scrape the Scotch fiddle-Oho! Oho!
Here's John in the middle-Oho! Oho!
There's nothing so bonny

As Scotch paper money,

Now dance away, Johnny-Oho! Oho!

YE KITE-FLYERS OF SCOTLAND.

BY T. C.*

Quel ch'io vi debbo posso di parole

Pagare in parte, e d'opera d'inchiostro.-ARIOSTO.

YE kite-flyers of Scotland,

Who live from home at ease;
Who raise the wind, from year to year,

In a long and strong trade breeze :
Your paper-kites let loose again

On all the winds that blow; Through the shout of the rout

Lay the English ragmen low;

Though the shout for gold be fierce and bold,
And the English ragmen low.

The spirits of your fathers
Shall peep from every leaf;

For the midnight was their noon of fame,
And their prize was living beef.

Where Deloraine on Musgrave fell,

Your paper kites shall show,

That a way to convey

Better far than theirs you know,

When you launch your kites upon the wind

And raise the wind to blow.

* Thomas Campbell.

Caledonia needs no bullion,

No coin in iron case;
Her treasure is a bunch of rags
And the brass upon her face;
With pellets from her paper mills
She makes the Southrons trow,
That to pay her sole way

Is by promising to owe,
By making promises to pay
When she only means to owe.

The meteor rag of Scotland

Shall float aloft like scum,

Till credit's o'erstrained line shall crack,
And the day of reckoning come :
Then, then, ye Scottish kite-flyers,
Your hone-a-rie must flow,

While you drink your own ink

With your old friend Nick below,

While you burn your bills and singe your quills
In his bonny fire below.

CHORUS OF NORTHUMBRIANS

ON THE PROHIBITION OF SCOTCH ONE-POUND NOTES IN ENGLAND.

MARCH, march, Make-rags of Borrowdale,*
Whether ye promise to bearer or order;
March, march, Take-rag and Bawbee-tail,†

All the Scotch flimsies must over the border:

Not the Cumberland Borrodaile, but the genuine ancient name of that district of Scotland, whatever it be called now, from which was issued the first promise to pay, that was made with the express purpose of being broken.

+ Scoticé for Tag-rag and Bob-tail: “a highly respectable old firm." A paper kite with a bawbee at its tail is perhaps a better emblem of the safe and economical currency of Scotland than Mr. Canning's mountain of paper irrigated by a rivulet of gold.