Classic Poem

TO THE DRAMA FOUNDED ON SAINT RONAN'S WELL

That 's right, friend — drive the gaitlings back,
And lend yon muckle ane a whack;
Your Embro' bairns are grown a pack,
Sae proud and saucy,
They scarce will let an auld wife walk
Upon your causey.

I 've seen the day they would been scaured
Wi' the Tolbooth or wi' the Guard,
Or maybe wud hae some regard
For Jamie Laing —
The Water-hole was right weel wared
On sic a gang.

But whar 's the gude Tolbooth gane now?
Whar 's the auld Claught, wi' red and blue?
Whar 's Jamie Laing? and whar 's John Doo?
And whar 's the Weigh-house?
Deil hae't I see but what is new,
Except the Playhouse!

Yoursells are changed frae head to heel,
There 's some that gar the causeway reel
With clashing hufe and rattling wheel,
And horses canterin',
Wha's fathers' daundered hame as weel
Wi' lass and lantern.

Mysell being in the public line,
I look for howfs I kenned lang syne,
Whar gentles used to drink gude wine
And eat cheap dinners;
But deil a soul gangs there to dine
Of saints or sinners!

Fortune's and Hunter's gane, alas!
And Bayle's is lost in empty space;
And now if folk would splice a brace
Or crack a bottle,
They gang to a new-fangled place
They ca' a Hottle.

The deevil hottle them for Meg!
They are sae greedy and sae gleg,
That if ye 're served but wi' an egg —
And that 's puir picking —
In comes a chiel and makes a leg,
And charges chicken!

" And wha may ye be," gin ye speer,
" That brings your auld-warld clavers here?"
Troth, if there 's onybody near
That kens the roads,
I 'll haud ye Burgundy to beer
He kens Meg Dodds.

I came a piece frae west o' Currie;
And, since I see you 're in a hurry,
Your patience I 'll nae langer worry,
But be sae crouse
As speak a word for ane Will Murray
That keeps this house.

Plays are auld-fashioned things in truth,
And ye 've seen wonders mair uncouth;
Yet actors shouldna suffer drouth
Or want of dramock,
Although they speak but wi' their mouth,
Not with their stamock.

But ye take care of a' folk's pantry;
And surely to hae stooden sentry
Ower this big house — that's far frae rent-free —
For a lone sister,
Is claims as gude 's to be a ventri —
How'st ca'd — loquister.

Weel, sirs, gude'en, and have a care
The bairns mak fun o' Meg nae mair;
For gin they do, she tells you fair
And without failzie,
As sure as ever ye sit there,
She 'll tell the Bailie.