Classic Poem

Has ne'er in a' this countra been,
Sic shou'dering and sic fa'ing,
As happen'd but few ouks sinsyne,
Here at the Christmas Ba'ing.
At evening syne the fallows keen
Drank till the niest day's dawing,
Sae snell, that some tint baith their een,
And could na pay their lawing
Till the niest day.

Like bumbees bizzing frae a byke,
Whan hirds their riggins tirr;
The swankies lap thro' mire and syke,
Wow as their heads did birr!
They yowff'd the ba' frae dyke to dyke
Wi' unco speed and virr;
Some baith their shou'ders up did fyke,
For blythness some did flirr
Their teeth that day.

Rob Roy, I wat he was na dull,
He first leit at the ba',
Syne wi' a rap clash'd Geordie's skull
Hard to the steeple-wa',
Wha was aside but auld Tam Tull?—
His frien's mishap he saw,—
Syne rair'd like ony baited bull,
And wi' a thud dang twa
To the yird that day.

The tanner was a primpit bit,
As flimsy as a feather,
He thought it best to try a hit,
Ere a' the thrang shou'd gadyr:
He ran wi' neither fear nor wit,
As fu' o' wind's a bladder;
Unluckily he tint the fit,
And tann'd his ain bum-lether
Fell weel that day.

Syne Francie Winsy steppit in,
A sauchin slivery slype,
Ran forrat wi' a furious din,
And drew a swinging swype.
But Tammy Norie thought nae sin
To come o'er him wi' a snype,
Levell'd his nose flat wi's chin,
And gart his swall'd een sype,
Sawt tears that day.

Bockin red bleed the fleep mair caum,
Ran hame to his nain mammy:
“Alas!” co' Katie, when she saw him,
“Wha did you this, my lammie?”
“A meikle man,” co' he, “foul faw him,”
But kent na it was Tammie,
“Rax'd me alang the chafts a wham
“As soon as e'er he saw me,
“And made me blae.”

“Deil rax his chandler chafts,” co' Kate,
“For doing you sic wrang,
“Gin I had here the skypel skate,
“Sae weel's I shou'd him bang!”
The gilpy stood, and leuk't fell blate,
To see her in sic a sang;
He squeel'd to her, like a young gyte,
But wad na mird to gang
Back a' that day.

The hurry burry now began,
Was right weel worth the seeing,
Wi' routs and raps frae man to man,
Some getting, and some gieing;
And a' the trieks of fit and hand,
That ever was in being;
Sometimes the ba' a yirdlins ran,
Sometimes in air was fleeing,
Fu' heigh that day.

Stout Steen gart mony a fallow stoit,
And flang them o'er like fail;
Said, “he'd na care ae clippit doit,
“Tho' a' should turn their tail.”
But wi' a yark Gib made his queet
As dwabil as a flail,
And o'er fell he, maist like to greet,
Just at the eemest ga'ill,
O' the kirk that day.

The sutor like tod-lowrie lap,
Three fit at ilka stend:
He did na miss the ba' a chap,
Ilk ane did him commend.
But a lang trypall there was Snap,
Cam' on him wi' a bend;
Gart him, ere ever he wist, cry clap
Upon his nether end;
And there he lay.