Classic Poem

W HAN father Adie first pat spade in
The bonny yard o' ancient Eden,
His amry had nae liquor laid in
To fire his mou',
Nor did he thole his wife's upbraidin
For being fou.

A caller burn o' siller sheen,
Ran cannily out owr the green,
And whan our gutcher's drouth had been
To bide right sair,
He loutit down and drank bedeen
A dainty skair.

His bairns had a' before the flood
A langer tak o' flesh an' blood,
And on mair pithy shanks they stood
Than Noah's line,
Wha still hae been a feckless brood
Wi' drinking wine.

The fudlin Bardies now-a-days
Rin maukin-mad in Bacchus' praise,
And limp and stoiter thro' their lays
Anacreontic,
While ilk his sea of wine displays
As big's the Pontic.

My Muse will nae gae far frae hame,
Or scour a' airths to hound for fame;
In troth the jillet ye might blame
For thinking on't,
Whan aithly she can find the theme
Of aqua font .

This is the name that doctors use
Their patients noddles to confuse;
Wi' simples clad in terms abstruse,
They labour still,
In kittle words to gar ye roose
Their want o' skill.

But we'll hae nae sick clitter-clatter,
And briefly to expound the matter,
It shall be ca'd guid Caller Water,
Than whilk I trow,
Few drugs in doctor's shops are better
For me or you.

Tho' joints be stiff as ony rung,
Your pith wi' pain be sairly dung,
Be you in Caller Water flung
Out o'er the lugs,
'Twill mak ye suple, swack and young,
Withouten drugs.

Tho' cholic or the heart-scad teaze us,
Or any inward dwaam should sieze us,
It masters a' sic fell diseases,
That would ye spulzie,
And brings them to a canny crisis
Wi' little tulzie.

Wer't na for it the bonny lasses
Wou'd glow'r nae mair in keeking glasses,
And soon tine dint o' a' the graces
That aft conveen
In gleefu' looks and bonny faces,
To catch our ein.

The fairest than might die a maid,
And Cupid quit his shooting trade,
For wha thro' clarty masquerade
Could then discover,
Whether the features under shade
Were worth a lover?

As simmer rains bring simmer flow'rs,
And leaves to cleed the birken bow'rs,
Sae beauty gets by caller show'rs,
Sae rich a bloom,
As for estate, or heavy dowers,
Aft stands in room.

What maks Auld Reikie's dames sae fair?
It cannot be the halesome air,
But caller burn beyond compare,
The best o' ony,
That gars them a' sic graces skair,
And blink sae bonny.

On May-day, in a fairy ring,
We've seen them round St Anthon's spring,
Frae grass the caller dew-draps wring
To weet their ein,
And water clear as crystal spring,
To synd them clean.

O may they still pursue the way,
To look sae feat, sae clean, sae gay!
Then shall their beauties glance like May,
And, like her, be
The Goddess of the vocal spray,
The Muse and me.