Wha the deil hae we gotten for a king But a wee, wee German lairdie, An’ he’s brought fouth o’ foreign trash An’ dibbled it in his yairdie,-- He’s pu’d the rose o’ England loons An’ broken the harp o’ Irish clowns-- But our Scotch thistle will jag his thumbs! The wee, wee German lairdie! We shall not find anything of a bilious nature in a Scottish love-song. We shall not hear the swain asking his lady-love to meet him “in some sky,” or “when the hay is in the mow,” or any other vaguely indefinite place or period. The Scottish lover appears,--if we may judge him by his native song,--to be supremely healthy in his sentiments, and gratefully conscious of the excellence of both life and love. He takes even poverty with a light heart, and does not grizzle over it in trickling tears of dismal melody. No; he says simply and cheerily: My riches a’ my penny fee, An’ I maun guide it cannie O,-- But this world’s gear ne’er fashes me,-- My thoughts are a’ my Nannie O! It will be a sad day indeed when this spirit of wholesome, tender and poetic imagination drifts away altogether from Scotland. We must not forget that the Scottish race has taken a very firm root in the New World Beyond Seas,--and that out in Canada and Australia and South Africa the memories and the traditions of home are dear to the hearts of thousands who call Scotland their mother. Surely they should be privileged to feel that in their beautiful ancestral land, the old proud spirit is still kept up,--the old legends, the old language, the old songs,--all the old associations, which--far away as they are forced to dwell--they can still hand down to their children and their children’s children. No king,--no statesman, can do for a country what its romancists and poets can,--for the sovereignty of the truly inspired and imaginative soul is supreme, and as far above all other earthly dominion as the fame of Homer is above the conquests of Alexander. And when the last touch of idealistic fancy and poetic sentiment has been crushed out of us, and only the dry husks of realism are left to feed swine withal, then may we look for the end of everything that is worth cherishing and fighting for in our much boasted civilization.