Nuts To Crack For Cousin Sam Poem by Janet Hamilton

Hae ye come to yer senses yet, Sammy, my man?
For ye juist war rid-wud whan the war it began;
Has the bluid ye hae lost, an' the physic ye've ta'en,
No cool't doun yer fever an' sober't yer brain?


What is't ye hae won? is it conquest an' fame?
Is't honour and glory-a conqueror's name?
Is't the South wi' its cotton, its planters, an' slaves?
It's nane o' them a', it's a million o' graves.


What is't ye hae lost? It's the big dollar bags,
An' ye've nocht in yer pouches but dirty green rags;
O' the wale o' yer men nocht is left but their banes,
An' the kintra is fu' o' their widows an' weans.


An' they've gaggit your press, an' they've steekit your mou',
An' they've set the red mark o' auld Cain on yer broo;
An' the bairns o' yer bairns that are yet to be born,
Will be harry't wi' taxes, an' put to the horn.


I've speer't ye some questions, I'll speer ye anither,
What ails ye man, Sammy, at Britain, yer mither?
Mark weel what she says when ye're cursin' an' craikin',
'I'll juist hae to gie that wild laddie a paikin'.'


The hale warl's glowerin' an' wonnerin' what text
Yer bluid-drinkin' parsons will open on next;
To Beecher an' Brownlow I'll juist say the word
Christ said to bauld Peter, 'twas, 'Put up thy sword.'


Ay, 'put up thy sword,' an' hae dune wi' yer game,
Ye hae lost a' the stakes that ye play'd for, gae hame;
Leuk after yer farm, let yer neebors alane-
Ye hae wark on your han', or I'm muckle mista'en.