That I, "for poor auld Scotland's sake, Some usefu' plan or beuk could make, Or sing a sang at least," Was aye my wish. But, Scotland dear, What is this shameful news I hear, That racks your poet's breast? That ruthless commerce, spreading wide, Will stain the shores of Ness, And turn those mossy floods aside I sang--with some success? That Beauty and Duty-- It sure _must_ be a hum!-- A Scot still can blot still, For--Aluminium! I know my country's love of "brass." 'Tis loth to let a bawbee pass, A saxpence bid go bang. Yet "Caledonia stern and wild," Rather than see these Falls defiled, Should bid gross gain go hang! Fancy those "rocky mounds" replaced By refuse-heaps--alack!-- And all the "heathy hills" defaced By smoke and chimney-stack! A tunnel?--Each runnel, In river and cascade, Seems shouting, and flouting The claims of tasteless Trade. And shall a private company In interests of mere £ s. d. Rob Ness of Beauty's dower? Shall Scotland in new-born stupidity Pander to sordid Trade's cupidity To get cheap water-power? Monopoly tap the torrent-stream, And "viewless Echo's ear" Be harried by the hideous scream Of railway whistles near? I'm firèd, inspirèd! The Muse, though mild and meek, Now dashing, eye-flashing, Assures me I _must_ speak! Scotland may list her BURNS'S song And stay, ere all too late, a wrong To beauty and herself. She's not so fast midst Mammon's thralls As sacrifice her noblest Falls To paltry greed of pelf. If she'll not heed the patriot's cry, She'll heed the poet's jingle. The prospect fires the Ploughman's eye, And makes his heart strings tingle. Ye're no men, nor wo-men, As Scots ye're false and fickle, Should Trade thus degrade thus The Falls to a poor trickle. Where are ye, bardlings, full of fire, Who tune to-day a Scottish lyre? Where is your sounding line? No stirring stanza can ye spare? Faith, Sirs, this aluminium scare Should waken all the Nine! Ah! could I hand my lyre to Lang, Loch Ness should echo loud To such a strain as ne'er yet rang In ears of Mammon's crowd. Wake "WULLIE"! 'Twon't sully _Your_ fame, you grand old Scot! For what land like Scotland Should raise your ire red-hot? * * * * * [Illustration: ACCOMMODATING. _Old Lady._ "NOW THEN, WHAT DO YOU WANT?" _Joe the Tramp._ "I AIN'T PERTICKLER, LADY. WHAT 'AV' YER GOT?"] * * * * *