The Scottish Farmer Ambulance Car – March 1916

The majority of our readers will, I trust, be pleased to learn that we have at last opened a subscription list for the purchase of a motor ambulance, to be named after this paper. The delay was caused by a misgiving, whether an appeal for £500 would be immediately successful, not because of the ungenerosity, but the generosity of the farmers. They have given so largely and to so many funds that some of us doubted the discretion of making one more call upon their pockets….

The Scottish Farmer is your intimate and faithful friend and never counsels you to do anything that is not wholly for your own good and the good of the world at large. We are, in some real sense, a large family, with many of our best and dearest sons serving the country at numerous posts of danger, and it is right and becoming that, in our corporate capacity, as the most influential farming family in Scotland we send a small gift to succour those dear sons who have been wounded that we may live here in safety.

For, after all, it is a small gift — a small thing for each of us to do. If every household sends its modest donation towards the family tribute of affection for our wounded kindred, very quickly we shall have over £500 and we shall be wondering why we were so slow at starting the good work… The main thing is that the money come in quickly. We are waiting breathlessly for the great offensive on our side. Unless some unforeseen and military miracle happens, there will be dreadful slaughter on all fronts before the year is much older……

George B. Sproat, Boreland of Anwoth, Gatehouse, sent £21 under cover of the following verse: 28th March, 1916. To Archibald MacNeilage, Esq., (Scottish Farmer Ambulance Car).

Dear leader o’ the fermin’ clan,
Wi’ love an’ due respec’
To help ye wi’ your “ambulance” plan,
I sen’ a wee bit cheque.

Last nicht when readin’ “Margaret’s” notes,
The tear cam’ to my e’e’;
She fairly touched my whunstane heart,
An’ made me fain to gi’e.

 She pled — like Portia — for puir chiels
That suffer in the war;
An’ made ilk reader’s duty clear
By joining in your car.

Nae doot, there’s some that barely ken
We’re fechtin’ wi’ the Hun;
It’s up to them to gi’e their gear
That doesna gi’e their son.

 That doesna gi’e! Ilk heart is thrilled
Beyond a’ human ken —
The bluid like water’s bein’ spilled
O’ mony a million men.

 An’ hearts are dowie, far an’ near,
For friens — nae mair to be;
Twad ease the pain to drap a tear
On graves they canna see.

Ye Pooers that hear the deafenin’ roar,
What means this deidly blast?
If this a’ lies at Wilhelms door,
Lord help him at the last.

 All hail! The end o’ warldly wars;
Meantime to you success,
An’ may ye raise a fleet o’ cars,
Yours ever.

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