By Sas's Sickly Streams (Psalm 137 parody)

By Sas's sickly streams we sat,
And ay we grain'd and ay we grat,
    When Scotland we thought on,
Our bagpipes hung neglected by,
The bag was toome, the whistle dry,
    And silent was the drone.

Now they wha brought us to this town,
Cry'd "Lads, Why are ye a' cast down?
    "Come sing us a Scotch sang."
But surely we'd be fair to blame,
To song our sangs sae far frae hame,
    To sic a scury gang.

Auld Reekie I did ne'er forget,
For ony town that I've seen yet,
    In a' their foreign lands:
Gin e'er I do, in time to come,
I pray that I may be struck dumb,
    And powerless be my hands.

How happy would the Dutchman be
If Britain was sunk in the sea,
    'Twould better their condition.
But let's gang on as we've begun,
'Tis to be hoped we spoil their fun,
    And nick them of their fishing.

O then we'll gar them a' repent,
The sending us to Sas van Ghent,
    We'll pay them for their pains.
We'll spare them neither young nor auld,
We'll take their gaytlings by the spauld,
    And dad them to the stanes.

-- Sir Robert Murray Keith (18th century)

found in Google Books - The Scotch haggis; consisting of anecdotes, jests [&c.] with a coll. of epitaphs and inscriptions (1822)