The news frae Moidart cam' yestreen, Will som gar mony ferlie, for ships o' war hae just come in. And landed Royal Charlie! Come through the heather, around him gather, Ye're a' the welcomer early Around him cling wi' a' your kin, For wha'll be King but Charlie? Come through the heather, around him gather, Come, Ronald, come Donald, come a' the gither And crown your rightfu' lawfu' King! For wha'll be King, but Charlie?
The Highland clans, wi' sword in hand, Frae John o'Groats to Airlie, Ha'e to a man declar'd to stand Or fa' wi' Royal Charlie!
O Canada! Our home and native land! True patriot love in all thy sons command. With glowing hearts we see thee rise, The True North strong and free! From far and wide, O Canada, we stand on guard for thee. God keep our land glorious and free! O Canada, we stand on guard for thee. O Canada, we stand on guard for the
James Bennett
A dark brown man covered in body hair. The first thing you notice is his smell. Curry and poo. He has a skinny frame, oily skin and hair. Slimy. Oozing curry and poo from his pours. A thin pathetic moustache. Pitiful.
He pulls down his pants to reveal a small penis surrounded by a mane of smelly greasy pubic hair. He turns around and I see his buttocks smiling at me. His butt is covered in more coarse hair, black. Small cheeks. He bends over and parts his cheeks. A waft of pure poo fills the air. The black hair is thickest here, with a brown hue. Dangle berries can be found. Yesterday's shit clinging on to life. The poo is a light brown, like pumpkin soup. He uses his hands to part the mattered poo hair to reveal a little brown butthole. Caked in poo. Disgusting. The epicentre of filth. An ugly crater. A dirty yet prolific anus.
while we wait, some Scots: Cam ye o'er frae France? Cam ye down by Lunnon? Saw ye Geordie Whelps and his bonny woman? Were ye at the place ca'd the Kittle Housie? Saw ye Geordie's grace riding on a goosie?
Geordie, he's a man there is little doubt o't; He's done a' he can, wha can do without it? Down there came a blade linkin' like my lordie; He wad drive a trade at the loom o' Geordie.
Though the claith were bad, blythly may we niffer; Gin we get a wab, it makes little differ. We hae tint our plaid, bannet, belt and swordie, Ha's and mailins braid—but we hae a Geordie!
Jocky's gane to France and Montgomery's lady; There they'll learn to dance: Madam, are ye ready? They'll be back belyve belted, brisk and lordly; Brawly may they thrive to dance a jig wi' Geordie!
Hey for Sandy Don! Hey for Cockolorum! Hey for Bobbing John and his Highland Quorum! Mony a sword and lance swings at Highland hurdie; How they'll skip and dance o'er the bum o' Geordie!
