As September 18th approaches I draw inspiration from the great bard himself

Tae a Union

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad be loathe to run an’ chase thee
Wi’ murderin’ prattle 

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion,
Is feart tae break this awful union,
An’ listens tae that ill opinion,
Which makes me startle
At thee, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal! 

I have nae doubt, but thou may thieve;
But then? Poor beastie, you have tae live!
A drap o’ tax frae an oilfield
It’s a sma’ request;
We’re still blessed wi’ the main yeild,
An’ never miss it! 

Thy massive housie in ruin!
It’s silly walls the winds are blowin!
An’ naething, now, to build a new one,
Oh! nothing green!
An’ bleak October’s winds ensuin’,
Both bleak an’ keen! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary winter comin’ fast,
An’ cozy here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell
Till crash! Independence passed
Right through your hell. 

That wee bit heap o’ Jocks, all trouble,
Has sent thee many a weary quibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for all thy trouble,
With broken hame,
To last the winter’s sleety dribble,
And icy realm! 

But London, thou art not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
Gang aft agley,
An’ leave us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy! 

So we art blest, compared wi’ thee;
The present only toucheth me:
But ouch! I backward cast my eye,
On prospects drearier!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess but withoot fear!

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