Fragment of an Ode in Praise of the Royal Scots Fusiliers
Ye’ll a’ hae heard tell o’ the Fusilier Jocks,
The famous auld Fusilier Jocks!
They’re as stieve as a stane,
And as teuch as a bane,
And as gleg as a pack o’ muircocks.
They’re maistly as braid as they’re lang,
And the Gairman’s a pump off the fang
When he faces the fire in their ee.
They’re no verra bonny,
I question if ony
Mair terrible sicht ye could see
Than a chairge o’ the Fusilier Jocks.
It gars Hindenburg swear
“Gott in Himmel, nae mair
O’ thae sudden and scan’alous shocks!”
And the cannon o’ Krupp
Ane and a’ they shut up
Like a pentit bit jaick-in-the-box,
At the rush o’ the Fusilier Jocks.
The Kaiser he says to his son
(The auld ane that looks like a fox)—
“I went ower far
When I stertit this war,
Forgettin’ the Fusilier Jocks.
I could manage the French and Italians and Poles,
The Russians and Tartars and yellow Mongols,
The Serbs and the Belgians, the English and Greeks,
And even the lads that gang wantin’ the breeks;
But what o’ thae Fusilier Jocks,
That stopna for duntin’ and knocks?
They’d rin wi’ a yell
Ower the plainstanes o’ Hell;
They’re no men ava—they are rocks!
They’d gang barefit
Through the Bottomless Pit,
And they’ll tak Berlin in their socks,—
Will thae terrible Fusilier Jocks!”...
1917