Classic Poem

Dear honest-hearted, Canty C HAIRLIE !
To wham I'd trust baith late and earlie;
Accept, in token o' regard,
Frae ryhming Mac , your friend and bard,
A gift, to raise on Sunday's even,
Your mind frae earthly thoughts to heaven;
Or, what's far mair, to keep frae quaking
Thy graceless saul for Sunday-breaking,
As, reckless ay o' prayer or kirk,
Ye ply your sinfu' wark till mirk,
Grunting owre deeds o' black rascality
In S ESSION C OURTS and A DMIRALTY ;
Till tired o' horning and memorial ,
Ye turn frae tricks to things corporeal;
For lang law-draughts, tak ane that's shorter,
(I mean a draught o' S KAE'S good porter;)
For desperate debts and pleas unlucky,
Sit down, and carve your roasted chucky,
And helping round ilk friend and cousin,
That mak, at least, a round half dozen,
Wi' crack — and joke — and steeve rum toddy,
Wow! but ye turn a dainty body!

Now, Charles, without a Sunday's blessing,
Wi a' your want o' Sunday's dressing;
Wi' hair unkaimed, and beard unshorn,
And slip-shod bachles, auld and torn;
Coat, that nae decent man wad put on,
And waistcoat aft without a button,
And breeks (let sans culottes defend them),
I hope in God, ye'll change, or — mend them.
I say, wi' a' these black transgressions,
(The fruits o' your curst courts and sessions),
There's yet sic sparks o' grace about you;
Sic radiant truth that shines throughout you,
Sic friendship firm; — sic qualms o' honour,
Whan sneaking rascals mak you sconner,
That ('pon my faith! I canna help it,
Though for't ilk time I should be skelpit)
I find a secret, inward greeting
O' peace at ilka Sunday meeting;
And feel — ye hash, wi' a' your duds on,
For you attractions like a loadstone;
That warm the heart wi' glows diviner
Than e'er I find for chiels that's finer.

Come, C HAIRLIE , then, my friend and brither!
When niest we a' convene the gither
To crack and joke in converse happy,
I'faith! we'se hae a hearty drappy;
And though I dinna like to buckle
Wi' hours owre late, or drink owre muckle,
Nor think it a' thegither right
To keep folk up on Sunday night,
I am resolved, be't right or sinfu',
To hae at least — " a decent skinfu';"
Wi' heart and hand keep friendship waking,
And trust to heaven for Sunday-breaking .
And sure, if bounteous heaven tak pleasure
In harmless mirth and social leisure,
And grant us ay the power to borrow
Some thoughtless hours to banish sorrow,
To crack, and laugh, and drink, nae sin is
Wi' modest worth and J AMIE I NNES ;
After a Sunday's feast — or pascal,
Wi' you, ye kirkless, canty rascal.

Mind, then, whan honest, trusty Peter ,
(Aboon a' praise in prose or metre)
Removes ilk dish, whar late, fu' dainty,
Stood roasted hen, and collops plenty;
And roddikins, and penches too,
And mussels pickled nice wi' broo;
And haddies caller at last carting,
Or rizzered sweet by Mrs Martin;
— Wi' kipper (branded het and broun)
A present sent frae Stirling town: —
I say, whan Pate wi' solemn face,
Removes ilk thing wi' steddy pace,
And brings the reeking burn and bowl
To cheer ilk presbyterian soul;
Whan ance that ye, a' fidging fain,
Draw the first cork wi' mony a grane;
And sometimes girning, sometimes blawin,
Examine gin its rightly drawn;
Whan three times round the port-wine passes,
And ilka friend has drank three glasses;
Nae langer grane, nor fyke, nor daidle,
But brandish ye the — lang-shanked ladle ,
That magic wand that has the knack ay
To mak us a' sae pleased and cracky;
That Moses' rod that weets ilk mouthie,
And maks streams gush for heart's that's drowthie,
And has the double power, sae curious!
To mak chiels blythe, and sometimes furious.

Now, as I've heard some hair-brained kempy
Growl whan your chappin bottle's empty,
And roar, and swear, wi' aiths that's sinfu',
For what's ay ca'd — " anither spoonfu'; "
To satisfy sic maws rapacious,
I herewi' send, o' size capacious,
A bottle , primed, my dainty callan,
Wi' somewhat mair than half a gallon
O' precious gear, I've lang been huntin,
Till caught at last frae W ATTIE B R — — N .
Fill , then! — and drink! — and banish dread
O' after sair wame, or sair head;
There's naithing here our harns to daver,
But rare auld stuff to mak us claver;
For here, I say in rhyming letter,
Hang me! if e'er ye tasted better!