True, and Brawlie

I’m a peaceable fellow, but it was not without a wee quickening of my Scottish heart that I read (with a tip of the tam o’shanter to Dennis Mangan and his commenters) of the reception given a couple of jihadists recently up in Glasgow.

In an item in the Independent, a Lanarkshire cabbie describes his homeland-security strategy, excerpted below:

The guy in the passenger seat got out and … kicked and punched a man to the ground before punching a policeman square in the face. That sort of thing just isn’t on. I told my passenger to run for her life, then I went for the man and managed to skelp him in the face. I followed it up by booting him twice.

“Just isn’t on”, indeed, and that was just the beginning. One for Scotland!

I’m reminded of an old poem, a favorite of my mother’s, about the unwisdom of starting trouble in those parts; I reproduce it here:

Wha Daur Meddle Wi’ Me?

Ma castle is aye ma ain,
An’ herried it never shall be,
For I maun fa’ ere it’s taen,
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Wi’ ma kit i’ the rib o’ ma naig,
Ma sword hingin’ doon by ma knee,
For man I am never afraid,
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Oh, ma name it’s wee Jock Elliot,
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Fierce Bothwell I vanquished clean,
Gar’d troopers an’ fitmen flee;
By my faith I dumfoondert the Queen,
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Alang by the dead water stank,
Jock Fenwick I met on the lea,
But his saddle was toom in a clank,
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Oh, ma name it’s wee Jock Elliot,
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?

Whar Keelder meets wi’ the Tyne,
Masel an’ ma kinsmen three,
We tackled the Percies nine –
They’ll never mair meddle wi’ me.
Sir Harry wi’ nimble brand,
He pricket ma cap ajee,
But I cloured his heid on the strand,
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Oh, ma name it’s wee Jock Elliot,
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?

The Cumberland reivers ken
The straik ma airm can gie,
An’ warily pass the glen,
For wha daur meddle wi’ me?
I chased the loons doon to Carlisle,
Jook’t the raip on the Hair-i-bee,
Ma naig nickert an’ cockit his tail,
But wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Oh, ma name it’s wee Jock Elliot,
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?

Ma kinsmen are true, an’ brawlie,
At glint o’ an enemie,
Round Park’s auld Turrets they rally,
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Then heigh for the tug an’ the tussle,
Tho’ the cost should be Jethart tree;
Let the Queen an’ her troopers gae whustle
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Oh, ma name it’s wee Jock Elliot,
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?

Readers can find a glossary, if needed, here.

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