“My Staff Has Murdered Giants”

From the 45 who voted to re-establish the Scottish nation, and to those who would fly the flag and enjoin hands in Auld Lang Syne, and yet tug it downward whence the chorus commenced; wherein our story, could the promise from a snake so sway opinion against the better judgement of history? Were we not fortified against such machinations; such coercion’s and toils an aw tha; that treason couldn’t sell us, even in this interconnected world? What luck to wish for!

Farewell to all our Scottish fame, and farewell our ancient glory. Farewell even to the Scottish name, so famed in marshal story!” Some would relent. Yet what is patriotism against a well-worn government, when your own is powerless to act against such opposition?

“Such a parcel of rouges in a nation” Others would de-cry! But deny themselves’ the realization that it was the very nation of which they hold so dear, whom had sold themselves for a pittance and petty promise. Who do we have to blame for our sorry state of affairs; truly? “That I saw the day, that treason thus would sell us. My old grey head was lain in clay; with Bruce, and loyal Wallace-“ What words! Evocative, rousing and inspiring; yet only when Auld Lang Syne, or Flower o’ Scotland bears down upon the ear; Whisky mist and swimming pride; buoyed by the presence of Scottish voices intermingled with that hollow, Sunday Nationalism!  Who indeed, today, would lay their old grey head within such vaulted clay?

What is it we actually fear; an afternoon wherein our rolling heads are but a spectacle to amuse the Queens garden party? Are we not past the point of endurance; are we not resolved to cry traitor and set our country free! “Freedom and right!” Treason and crowns, and all such glimmer should neither distract us, nor detract our shrug of the Saxon! For when has a crown, even gold or platinum, ever instructed a Scotsman beyond that which he was willing?

Never! For, over two thousand years, we have wiped out their best fighting men; Saxons and Normans; Romans; Danes and Norwegians; not one of them could conquer us; us savages’ and beasts! For our entire history, as a people, a nation, a culture; we have feared no betrayal to the Saxon. Not once have we ever shunned their intentions; not once! We had fought them every time; outnumbered five-to-one, even; victorious in each dance! But even still, our nation is plagued with foul blood; Unionists and Monarchists; Orange Order thugs, and Rangers supporters. Protestants, and quislings; that my own protestant blood curdles to be thought among their sickly number! If my hand was to be forced, then I would clutch the badge of Celtic, over Rangers, and hold it to my chest as the punches rained down. Were it not for my Kin, then I would accept the Romany Faith in my heart; that I would be one step closer to all those who had set to see my country free. Catholic, Irish-Catholic, Protestant, and everywhere in between; are we not Scottish in blood and name, that we might see ourselves set apart as Scottish men?

Apparently not. Even when every page has been gilded with suffering and plots; that the book weighs upon the arm just to turn the page; we forgive and we forget. We forget that we are the most downtrodden people alive. That we alone, are the only people to have ever held the key to our shackles, and thus swallowed it dutifully. “What force Argyll could not subdue, through many war-like ages. His rod now by a coward fear, for hiring coward’s wages-“ Why wouldn’t we have wanted freedom? This I ask openly and honestly, as a man who couldn’t conceive of ever voting against such a thing. Is the bond so fast that one would feel a kinship to the Saxon? The very same which only two hundred years ago, we had sat upon our hills and watched, merrily, as they died of the Bubonic Plague? The very same that has dogged us every step of our existence? Will our country survive this millennium, this century; or will we succumb wholly to the corruption of spirit that is “Britishness!”

Will we ever be a nation again? Or will we simply placate ourselves with the idea that “As Long As There’s One Hundred O’ Scots Remain Alive” Someone else will secure our future! “Or Tae Victory!” Shall we cry, “Chains and Slavery. Wha will be a traitor knave, wha can fill a cowards grave, wha sae base as be a slave; let him turn an flee. Wha for Scotland’s King and Law, freedom’s sword will strongly draw; free men stand, or free men faw; let him follow me! Scots wha hae wie Wallace bleed, Scots wham Bruce has aften led, welcome tae your gory bed; or tae victory! By oppressions woes and pains, by yer sons in servile chains; we will drain our dearest veins, but they shall be free! Lay the proud usurper low; tyrants fall in every foe; liberty’s in every blow; let us do or die! Scots wha hae wie Wallace bleed, Scots wham Bruce has aften led, welcome tae your gory bed, or tae victory!”

And so wherein lays the source of this self-destructive fear, or doubt? A genuine question. What could so sell Scotland, and your Scottishness, that you would trade it all for the moniker: British? Is there no inspiration in our own language; our stories or legends; that would give you pause if only you took the time to acknowledge them? Can you not find even a glimmer of hope, or creativity, within the example of those who came before; their innovations within, and teachings of Mathematics; philosophy, and science? “By yon bonnie braes and by thine bonny banks” Are you so blind to the value and worth within your own self, that the accomplishments of your people fall so dully upon your heart!

To any Scotsman or woman reading this; this question is meant solely for you to answer: If all was to end badly, then would you stand by your own folk; or allow the inevitable to paint you as a coward? Should your nation be threatened; would you cover your eyes and submit, or die in the ruins alongside your people?

I love Scotland. From her velvet green thighs, to her fearsomely craggy curves which lie between tranquil Lochs, and vulgar hips; mountains spurring to thrust at the sky amid rolling landscapes of bog, bracken and thistle. Lovely eyes as moody as midnight, or serene as silver bands; she remains, calm and modest in her own magnificence, and as a revelation to the waning spirit as any joy therein. Scotland is my mother; wet-nurse, and companion. And I will always love her more dearly than life itself. Pray to God that I should never require reason enough in which to prove that statement. Scotland to me is truly life itself.

And now I ask you again; were your life to be threatened by the barrel of a gun aimed for your head; would you kneel before the gun as a coward; or, attempt to beat to death with your fists, the very fucker who’s pointing it at you?

I for one would want to die in such a manner! To find myself with nothing to lose; all odds against me, and with the guns of an overwhelming enemy arranged there against! For there is a glory in that; honor! To grin at your foe, and to let him know that no fear lies within your heart; no worry constricts your pulse in that intimate moment! To look him in the eye as you curse his name, and then launch forward to receive the executioners writ.

Cinead MacAlpin.

P.S. lads, and lassies; I assure you all that this is but a plea, and no threat. For I but pass with light intention; through this fair land of ours; a place of noble thinkers, scholars and great drinkers.