The Philosopher’s True Scotsman
He was not a Scotsman
But the other himself
He cheated on his wife
In Berlin and Guelph.
No Scotsman would do such thing
Although once one did
Well, redefine the notion
No true Scotsman would, indeed.
He was not a Scotsman
But a foreigner in mist
He robbed banks often,
Just twice, he insists.
No Scotsman would do such thing
Although once one did
Well, redefine the notion
No true Scotsman would, indeed.
He was not a Scotsman
But an immigrant in town
Elected to office
Let his voters down.
No Scotsman would do such thing
Although once one did
Well, redefine the notion
No true Scotsman would, indeed.
poem by Paul Hartal
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Related quotes
I am not an Englishman, I was never an Englishman, and I don't ever want to be one. I am a Scotsman! I was a Scotsman and I will always be one.
quote by Sean Connery
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There are few more impressive sights in the world than a Scotsman on the make.
quote by James M. Barrie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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With disadvantages enough to bring him to humility, a Scotsman is one of the proudest things alive.
quote by Oliver Goldsmith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Song For Kilts
How grand the human race would be
If every man would wear a kilt,
A flirt of Tartan finery,
Instead of trousers, custom built!
Nay, do not think I speak to joke:
(You know I'm not that kind of man),
I am convinced that all men folk.
Should wear the costume of a Clan.
Imagine how it's braw and clean
As in the wind it flutters free;
And so conducive to hygiene
In its sublime simplicity.
No fool fly-buttons to adjust,--
Wi' shanks and maybe buttocks bare;
Oh chiels, just take my word on trust,
A bonny kilt's the only wear.
'Twill save a lot of siller too,
(And here a canny Scotsman speaks),
For one good kilt will wear you through
A half-a-dozen pairs of breeks.
And how it's healthy in the breeze!
And how it swings with saucy tilt!
How lassies love athletic knees
Below the waggle of a kilt!
True, I just wear one in my mind,
Since sent to school by Celtic aunts,
When girls would flip it up behind,
Until I begged for lowland pants.
But now none dare do that to me,
And so I sing with lyric lilt,--
How happier the world would be
If every male would wear a kilt!
poem by Robert William Service
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Moonshine
Amidst the hills clandestine stills
are still producing liquid gold.
Utilising ancient skills
passed down from forebears; known of old.
Forded from their homelands unjustly
deprived of all they had by laws
Enforced by English kings decree
The clansmen had no other course.
But emigrate and seek freedom
in distant lands across the sea
Where they hoped to find a welcome.
It seems they did and readily
Resumed the way of life they knew
cherished traditions from the past
They proved they were willing to
adapt to change as the years passed
Becoming model citizens.
Accepting their new ome lands laws.
Retaining some independence
as any Scotsman would of course.
Inherited ability
ensured they’re were able to.
Distil their own kind of whisky.
Something that they will always do.
Though law abiding generally.
They’re adamant the will not pay
the government any duty
on what they make it’s not their way
Rebellion is in their blood
inherited genetically.
They would not change it if they could
They won’t surrender easily
And that is why we hide our stills
in places that are known only to us.
An ongoing battle of wills
between the government and us.
11-Jan-09
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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First Impressions can be false
The vicar wore a summer frock
when he was preaching to his flock.
His chosen theme intolerance
afforded him the perfect chance.
To openly admit he was
a little different because.
By nature disinclined to fight
the urges which to him felt right.
Confidently masculine.
He did not feel clothes should define
ones sexual identity
and should be viewed more tolerantly.
All deviations from the norm
considered so we might reform
The way we judge our fellow men
It is time to take stock again.
A brawny Scotsman we accept
can wear a kilt we don’t suspect.
that he might be effeminate.
In fact we think that he looks great.
A prime example of a man.
Which only goes to show we can forget
our preconceived ideas.
A man defines the clothes he wears
In days of yore Dandies would dress
in silks and velvet to impress
and would defend with naked steel
the right to dress the way they feel.
I find it hard to understand
why people condemn out of hand
Men who do not seem to care
what you think they ought wear.
A man has every right to dress
in any fashion more nor less.
Women can wear trouser suits
and if they choose to heavy boots.
If your reaction to his clothes
is to suspect he’s one of those
Then you display your ignorance
and complete lack of tolerance.
16-Jan-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Candy Store Dream
Need I pull
The escape chord?
This flying Scotsman travels too fast
Me thinks
Whilst my dog lays dying
My castle lays crumbling
My heart lays in carnage
No wonder
I sink
Last night I escaped to a world with a girl
Theatrical elegance surrounded her form
As she leant forward
Framed eyes widened (back arched)
And held
One finger
Vertically over silken pursed lips
And quietly hushed me
Ushering
Urging
Me to follow her slip like form
Through to a medly of sumptuous shades of scarlet
Sky
Tall slim conifer style clouds
Of glorious turquoise
Slipped
Slowly
By
As vertically as her finger
She led and beckoned
I followed
Clambering conifer clouds
Reaching candy striped
Tight ropes
As we tip toed above all and I eventually rose my eyes
There were many old young souls
Smiling clambering in silent jubilation
And I forgot
The flying Scot
And all it's pain
As I was a child in a candy store
Thank fully
Momentarily
Once
Again
poem by Karen Sinclair
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The Seabolt's Volunteers
They towed the Seabolt down the stream,
And through the harbour’s mouth;
She spread her wings and sailed away
To seek the sunny South.
But, ah! she met with storm on storm
Ere half her course had run;
And all her masts were torn away,
And all her boats save one.
The good old ship had settled far
Beneath her cargo line,
Her riven sides were drinking deep
The draughts of ocean brine.
There gathered round the only boat
The women pale with fear,
And trembling little ones, who clung
To those who held them dear.
Then spoke the captain, brave and true,
His voice rose o’er the roar;
“The boat will save us all but five,
She cannot float with more!”
And backward from the side he stepped—
(He had been born at sea)
“Now who will seek in ocean’s depths
A sailor’s grave with me?”
Then up there stepped a merchant stout,
His face was brown and tan:
“I’ll volunteer to stay on board,
For I’m an Englishman!”
Then spoke a gallant gentleman,
A lover of romance:
“Remain I for the ladies’ sake,
For I’m a son of France!”
And next there spoke a Highlander:
“Go search the wide world round,
You’ll find no spot where on the earth
A Scotsman is not found!”
And then there spoke a lad to whom
Killarney’s lakes were dear:
“It won’t be said that Ireland found
No place of honour here!”
The boat pushed from the vessel’s side
Amid the ringing cheers;
And now beneath Old Ocean sleep
The Seabolt’s volunteers.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Seabolt's Volunteers
They towed the Seabolt down the stream,
And through the harbour’s mouth;
She spread her wings and sailed away
To seek the sunny South.
But, ah! she met with storm on storm
Ere half her course had run;
And all her masts were torn away,
And all her boats save one.
The good old ship had settled far
Beneath her cargo line,
Her riven sides were drinking deep
The draughts of ocean brine.
There gathered round the only boat
The women pale with fear,
And trembling little ones, who clung
To those who held them dear.
Then spoke the captain, brave and true,
His voice rose o’er the roar;
“The boat will save us all but five,
She cannot float with more!”
And backward from the side he stepped—
(He had been born at sea)
“Now who will seek in ocean’s depths
A sailor’s grave with me?”
Then up there stepped a merchant stout,
His face was brown and tan:
“I’ll volunteer to stay on board,
For I’m an Englishman!”
Then spoke a gallant gentleman,
A lover of romance:
“Remain I for the ladies’ sake,
For I’m a son of France!”
And next there spoke a Highlander:
“Go search the wide world round,
You’ll find no spot where on the earth
A Scotsman is not found!”
And then there spoke a lad to whom
Killarney’s lakes were dear:
“It won’t be said that Ireland found
No place of honour here!”
The boat pushed from the vessel’s side
Amid the ringing cheers;
And now beneath Old Ocean sleep
The Seabolt’s volunteers.
poem by Henry Lawson
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From pools of blood
From pools of blood bushes, trees
and aloes grow in the veldt
where British soldiers
fired on my countrymen
and some bayoneted them.
Concentration camps where twenty thousand
women and children died without dignity
at the hand of foreigners,
who claimed to be fellow Christians
are now covered with grass
and that past are being blotted out
as if the misery, the indignity,
the mass murder
never happened
and great Queen Victoria
is still dignified
and still I hold Great Britain responsible
for the murder of my great grand mother,
for the destruction
of my great grand father’s farm,
for the seizure
of my other great grand father’s property,
for sending him to St. Helena
as a prisoner of war,
for invading my country
for making profit from the minerals
and the quarter Scotsman in me
together with my three quarters Afrikaner parts
forever wants to be free
from the enslavement
which that foreign nation brought.
[Note: My own great grandmother died in a British concentration camp and my great grandfather was sent by the British to St. Helena as a prisoner of war and as a result of this, my grandfather(Gert Strydom) grew up in a orphanage.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Battle Of Brunanburgh
Athelstan King,
Lord among Earls,
Bracelet-bestower and
Baron of Barons,
He with his brother,
Edmund Atheling,
Gaining a lifelong
Glory in battle,
Slew with the sword-edge
There by Brunanburh,
Brake the shield-wall,
Hew'd the lindenwood,
Hack'd the battleshield,
Sons of Edward with hammer'd brands.
Theirs was a greatness
Got from their Grandsires--
Theirs that so often in
Strife with their enemies
Struck for their hoards and their hearths and their homes.
Bow'd the spoiler,
Bent the Scotsman,
Fell the shipcrews
Doom'd to the death.
All the field with blood of the fighters
Flow'd, from when first the great
Sun-star of morningtide,
Lamp of the Lord God
Lord everlasting,
Glode over earth till the glorious creature
Sank to his setting.
There lay many a man
Marr'd by the javelin,
Men of the Northland
Shot over shield.
There was the Scotsman
Weary of war.
We the West-Saxons,
Long as the daylight
Lasted, in companies
Troubled the track of the host that we hated;
Grimly with swords that were sharp from the grindstone
Fiercely we hack'd at the flyers before us.
Mighty the Mercian,
Hard was his hand-play,
Sparing not any of
Those that with Anlaf,
Warriors over the
Weltering waters
Borne in the bark's-bosom,
Drew to this island:
Doom'd to the death.
Five young kings put asleep by the sword-stroke,
Seven strong earls of the army of Anlaf
Fell on the war-field, numberless numbers,
Shipmen and Scotsmen.
Then the Norse leader,
Dire was his need of it,
Few were his following,
Fled to his warship;
Fleeted his vessel to sea with the king in it,
Saving his life on the fallow flood.
Also the crafty one,
Constantinus,
Crept to his north again,
Hoar-headed hero!
Slender warrant had
He to be proud of
The welcome of war-knives--
He that was reft of his
Folk and his friends that had
Fallen in conflict,
Leaving his son too
Lost in the carnage,
Mangled to morsels,
A youngster in war!
Slender reason had
He to be glad of
The clash of the war-glaive--
Traitor and trickster
And spurner of treaties--
He nor had Anlaf
With armies so broken
A reason for bragging
That they had the better
In perils of battle
On places of slaughter--
The struggle of standards,
The rush of the javelins,
The crash of the charges,
The wielding of weapons--
The play that they play'd with
The children of Edward.
Then with their nail'd prows
Parted the Norsemen, a
Blood-redden'd relic of
Javelins over
The jarring breaker, the deep-sea billow,
Shaping their way toward Dyflen again,
Shamed in their souls.
Also the brethren,
King and Atheling,
Each in his glory,
Went to his own in his own West-Saxonland,
Glad of the war.
Many a carcase they left to be carrion,
Many a livid one, many a sallow-skin--
Left for the white-tail'd eagle to tear it, and
Left for the horny-nibb'd raven to rend it, and
Gave to the garbaging war-hawk to gorge it, and
That gray beast, the wolf of the weald.
Never had huger
Slaughter of heroes
Slain by the sword-edge--
Such as old writers
Have writ of in histories--
Hapt in this isle, since
Up from the East hither
Saxon and Angle from
Over the broad billow
Broke into Britain with
Haughty war-workers who
Harried the Welshman, when
Earls that were lured by the
Hunger of glory gat
Hold of the land.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Steam Dreams
In this day of electric and diesel, very rarely is seen,
A shining locomotive, which is powered by steam.
Back in the days, when my parents were born,
The sight of a steam train was quite the norm.
Whenever a steam train catches my eye,
I stand, watching in awe, as it passes by.
‘Oh wow! Look! ’ I say, as I point a finger,
And the memory of it in my mind will linger.
Steam trains will never completely die out,
As, thankfully, there’s still quite a few about.
About a steam train, there’s something really quite dramatic.
And at the chance of riding on one, people are often ecstatic.
I remember seeing The Flying Scotsman at Salisbury station,
And I stood there marvelling at it with such great admiration.
The engine and all of its carriages just looked so smart.
The sight of such a train, never fails to quicken the heart.
Steam trains are so very elegant in their style.
To spot one, enthusiasts will travel many a mile.
It strange to think that years ago, they were all the rage,
When, they are such a very rare sight, in this day and age.
The sight of the world famous Orient Express,
Is one which will never ever fail to impress.
Through the windows, you can see the plush seats,
Where excited passengers will sit down and eat.
On board, the historic carriages of brown and cream,
They serve expensive champagne and gourmet cuisine.
Sat in a world of pure indulgence, passengers glide,
Through the green and pleasant British countryside.
The carriages have all been restored to their former glory;
If they could talk, I’m sure they could all share quite a story.
The carriages have been described as ‘palaces on wheels’,
And I would really love to know just how that feels.
Still being a very rare sight in these modern times,
I fancy taking a trip on a steam train, to sit and dine.
I guess you would have to pay quite a princely sum,
But I think it would be worth it, just to travel on one.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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In The Years Of Sarsfield
I wish I were over the Curlew Mountains,
Marching to Sligo by valley and fen;
I wish I were back in the years of Sarsfield,
Tramping the rough roads with him and his men.
I wish that I stood upon Yellow Island,
Watching the camp that the Williamites made;
I wish that my good gun was pressed to my shoulder
And that my caubeen held the white cockade.
I wish I were out with 'galloping Hogan,'
Happy a guide for my hero to be,
Encamped for the night on the Keeper Mountain,
Ready to guard with the brave rapparee.
I wish I had been in the woods of Cullen
In the dark night when the battle began;
I wish I had heard at the wan moon's rising
'Sarsfield the word, and Sarsfield the man.'
I wish I were young at the siege of Limerick,
Holding the breach there and glad in the fight;
Ah, could I but see him, King William of Orange,
With his troops defeated ready for flight.
Had I but stood on the bridge of Athlone, there
Flinging the plank and beam into the wave,
Keeping the broken arch, as the last hero stood
Fighting the fight of death, one of the brave.
I wish I had fought in the flood of the Shannon
With the grim Dutchmen, to conquer or drown,
Left without shot or shell by the false Maxwell,
Into the deep had that traitor gone down.
I wish I had fought in the battle of Aughrim
By the black bog on the side of the hill,
Seeing there Ginkel's men fall to disquietude,
Failing with Sarsfield meant living still.
I wish I had flown with the Wild Geese across the sea,
Knelt on red Landen's plain, facing the foe;
Holding the dear head of Sarsfield on my heart,
Knowing from his brave blood heroes would grow.
Ah, had I sailed to far France out of Galway,
There on the deck the spy Maxwell to see,
Bishop or Luttrell never had stayed me from
'Tossing the Scotsman right into the sea.'
poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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Good Night, My Darlings
When life gives a bum rap, don’t kvetch and don’t bitch,
for weeping solves nothing, it’s better to chortle
when forced to strike out once delivered the pitch
that tells us the game’s up since we’re only mortal.
“Good night, my darlings, I’ll see you tomorrow, ”
the famous last lines of Sir Noël, no coward,
are well worth recalling when, grieving with sorrow,
despair grows like weeds in the hearts when joy flowered.
John Simon reviews “The Letters of Noël Coward, ” edited with commentary by Barry Day (“Sir Noël’s Epistles, ” NYT Book Review, November 25,2007) :
The astute English critic Kenneth Tynan identified Broadway humor as being chiefly of two kinds: Jewish and homosexual. He might have called it kvetch and bitch, perfectly good types, but not really British. Noël Coward, who was only one of those two things, specialized in neither type in his oeuvre. He kept it all for his correspondence. So “The Letters of Noël Coward, ” edited and commented on by Barry Day, may come as a surprise to most readers. It abounds in both kinds of humor, as only Sir Noël (knighted very late in life owing to obstruction by Winston Churchill) could dish it out. But it follows like Day the knight that, given the editor’s several books of Cowardiana, what we get is much more than just Coward’s letters, however delectable…
As Tynan perceptively wrote, “Coward took the fat off English comic dialogue; he was the Turkish bath in which it slimmed.” In 1973, at a gala performance of the revue “Oh, Coward! , ” he made his last public appearance (I was there) . Leaning on Dietrich more than escorting her, he was asked if he enjoyed the show. Answer: “One does not laugh at one’s own jokes — but I went out humming the tunes.” On the closing night of his life, in Jamaica with his secretary Cole Lesley and his companion, the actor Graham Payn, he took leave with, “Good night, my darlings, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Dead on the morrow, he didn’t get to see them. But we, happily, will see him in his immortal plays, as another famous Scotsman put it, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
11/26/07
poem by Gershon Hepner
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It would be nice to redefine ourselves - at the moment we are drowning in diversity. That's not a bad thing, its just going to take a while before we refocus.
quote by Harvey Fierstein
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Redefine
Killing for the sacred one
Find the words and go beyond
Search for the word to find
Just follow me and redefine
Redefine
This will be the constant fear
That goes beyond the life-dead trail
Falls into the searching light
Falls to the bottom of this blind
Kill for the sacred one
Find the words and go beyond
Seach for the word to find
Just follow me and redefine
Redefine
This will be the constant fear
That goes beyond the life-dead trail
Falls into the searching light
Falls to the bottom of this blind
Finding the word
Please be the word
???
Wretched torture death dismay
Feed off the ones that go unto you
Finding the ones are sacred to you
Killing the souls and fighting the dead
We are the ones the coming of dread
The coming of dread
???
The temple which will do no good
The beast before will show you should
Search for the word to find
That penetrates the re-align
Redefine
This will be the constant fear
That goes beyond the life-dead trail
Falls into the searching light
Falls to the bottom of this blind
Search for the word to find
Just follow Me and redefine
song performed by by Obituary
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I do believe that we have the opportunity to continue to redefine and reinvent ourselves and as long as we do that, then I think we've got some pretty good odds in our favor, because we're not always presenting the same thing.
quote by Patrick Warburton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I do believe that we have the opportunity to continue - I repeat myself over and over again with this - to redefine and reinvent ourselves and as long as we do that, then I think we've got some pretty good odds in our favor, because we're not always presenting the same thing.
quote by Patrick Warburton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Scottish Engineer
With eyes that searched in the dark,
Peering along the line,
Stood the grim Scotsman, Hector Clark,
Driver of "Forty-nine".
And the veldt-fire flamed on the hills ahead,
Like a blood-red beacon sign.
There was word of a fight to the north,
And a column too hardly pressed,
So they started the Highlanders forth.
Heedless of food or rest.
But the pipers gaily played,
Chanting their fierce delight,
And the armoured carriages rocked and swayed.
Laden with men of the Scots Brigade,
Hurrying up to the fight,
And the grim, grey Highland engineer
Driving them into the night.
Then a signal light glowed red,
And a picket came to the track.
"Enemy holding the line ahead;
Three of our mates we have left for dead,
Only we two got back."
And far to the north through the still night air
They heard the rifles crack.
And the boom of a gun rang out,
Like the sound of a deep appeal,
And the picket stood in doubt
By the side of the driving-wheel.
But the engineer looked down,
With his hand on the starting-bar,
"Ride ye back to the town,
Ye know what my orders are,
Maybe they're wanting the Scots Brigade
Up on those hills afar.
"I am no soldier at all,
Only an engineer;
But I could not bear that the folk should say
Over in Scotland -- Glasgow way --
That Hector Clark stayed here
With the Scots Brigade till the foe was gone,
With ever a rail to run her on.
Ready behind! Stand clear!
"Fireman, get you gone
Into the armoured train --
I will drive her alone;
One more trip -- and perhaps the last --
With a well-raked fire and an open blast;
Hark to the rifles again!"
On through the choking dark,
Never a lamp nor a light,
Never an engine spark
Showing her hurried flight,
Over the lonely plain
Rushed the great armoured train,
Hurrying up to the fight.
Then with her living freight
On to the foe she came,
And the rides snapped their hate.
And the darkness spouted flame.
Over the roar of the fray
The hungry bullets whined,
As she dashed through the foe that lay
Loading and firing blind,
Till the glare of the furnace, burning clear,
Showed them the form of the engineer
Sharply and well defined.
Through! They are safely through!
Hark to the column's cheer!
Surely the driver knew
He was to halt her here;
But he took no heed of the signals red,
And the fireman found, when he climbed ahead,
There on the door of his engine -- dead --
The Scottish Engineer!
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Just A Notion
Just a notion - that's all
Just a funny feeling deep inside
Aah, that you're out there waiting
You're not sure I'm alone
And you wonder if I'm occupied
Aah, so you're hesitating
Just a notion
That you'll be walking up to me in a while
And you smile and say: "Hello" and
We'll be dancing through the night
Knowing everything from there on must be right
Just a notion
But somehow I know I'm not wrong
There's something happening
And I just can't explain
If I try it's all in vain
Because it's
Just a notion - that's all
Just a feeling that you're watching me
Aah, every move I'm making
Am I reading your mind
'Cause it's almost like your touching me
Aah, there is no mistaking
Dancing through the night
Knowing everything from there on must be right
Just a notion
But somehow I know I'm not wrong
If it's our destiny
There's nothing we can do
And tonight is very special
It's the night for me and you
Just a notion - that's all
Just a funny feeling deep inside
Aah, that you're out there waiting
You're not sure I'm alone
And you wonder if I'm occupied
Aah, so you're hesitating
Just a notion - that's all
Just a funny feeling deep inside
song performed by by ABBA
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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