Original Poetry.

Colonist, Volume IV, Issue 373, 21 May 1861, Page 4

Original Poetry.

THE THISTLE.

A CAUTIOUS COUNSEL TO OUR COUNCILMKN.

Done into 'Crambo Clink' by Auld Willie,

Why should ye, Councillors collected, Bo so dumfounded and dejected Because your law is disrepected Ey Scottish thistles, Which bloom despite it—heads erected

Amidst their bristles ?

I think—nay, ony fule wad think— Ye surely were the waur o' drink To deave us wi' your gabbling clink

An' noisy bustle, ■When cv'ry ane o' you wad shrink

To touch a thistle,

Then if ye'ro fear'd yourscl's to touch them, How daur ye bid your neighbors clutch them, Or have ye* some machine to scutch them

"Clean off the land, I rede ye tent before ye catch them Wi' naked hand.

The thistle is unconquerable By foeman—be they white.or sable ! Its motto"5 is nae auld wife's fable,

But daring fact ; Then, swith ! go fling below your table Your Thistle Act. When auld Rome wore tho world's croun, She thought to tread the thistle doun, But when she tried she found out soon

Rash was her aim, Tlie thistle made her fingers stoun'

An' sent her hame.

At Largs an' Loncarty the Dane Tried hard to make its hame his am, But mony a bouk o' broken bane

Was a' he got—An' thistles bloom on cairns o' stane

Which tell his lot.' At Bannockburn the thi-tle waves Owre fifty thousand Southrons' graves, Wha thought to fill its hame wi' slaves,

But in the quarrel Their steel-clad ranks were knock'd to staves,

Like worn-out barrel

Ochon ! that Fed or did engage Your thistle panic to assuage By scribbling out anither page 0' feckless law ! The thistle caresna for his rage

A single straw. Stout Alf. wad plaster up ' the Act,' Rut though he's by the Doctor back'd, He'll find the thistle is a fact

' That winna ding;' An' he is little less than crack'd

Wha plucks its sting ! Your Clark—your auld Provencial Clark— Said right, that ye had miss'd your mark, An' had been graipin' in the dark

In a' this matter; That a' your wavk was useless wark

An' wasted clatter. Auld Horn may blaw his loudest tout, An' some be friens that anco fell out To gie the prickly cheilds the rout,

But a' in vain— They lang shall wag, wi' daring snout, Owic hill an' plain!

But how can ye do weel without tliein ? They stau' gudc stead, to talk about them So d'inna hurry to uproot them

Till ither matters, "Which need your Council to dispute them, '

Require your clatters. If eloquence ye still maun nurse, Have ye no brackens, briers, and furze, Wild Irishmen wi' horrid spurs

In great galore, An routh o' talking untaxed curs

At ev'ry door ?

Go, tackle them wi' a' your might, Prolong your sittings day and night, Let's hear how ye can fume an' liyte

Wi' noisy bustle,

Do what ye like—bet wrong or right, But tent the Thistle !

* Nemo me impane lacessct.