Classic Poem

Is Allan risen frae the dead,
Wha aft has tun'd the aiten reed,
And by the Muses was decreed
To grace the thistle?
Na! Fergusson's come in his stead
To blaw the whistle.

In troth, my callant, I'm sae fain
To read your sonsy, canty strain,
You write sic easy style and plain,
And words sae bonny,
Nae southern loun dare you disdain,
Or cry, Fy on ye!

Whae'er has at Auld Reikie been,
And king's birth-day's exploits has seen,
Maun own that ye hae gi'en a keen
And true description;
Nor say ye've at Parnassus been
To form a fiction.

Hale be your heart, ye canty chield!
May ye ne'er want a gude warm bield,
And sic gude cakes as Scotland yield,
And ilka dainty
That grows or feeds upo' her field,
And whisky plenty.

But ye, perhaps thirst mair for fame,
Than a' the gude things I can name,
And than ye will be fair to blame
My gude intention:
For that ye needna gae frae hame
You've sic pretension.

Sae saft and sweet your verses jingle,
An' your auld words sae meetly mingle,
'Twill gar baith married fock and single
To roose your lays:
Whan we forgether round the ingle,
We'll chant your praise.

Whan I again Auld Reikie see,
An' can forgether, lad, wi' thee,
Then we wi' meikle mirth and glee
Shall tak a gill,
And o' your caller oysters we
Shall eat our fill.

If sic a thing shou'd you betide,
To Berwick town to tak a ride,
I'se tak ye up Tweed's bonny side
Before ye settle,
And shaw you there the fisher's pride,
A sa mon kettle.

There lads an' lasses do conveen
To feast an' dance upo' the green,
And there sic bravery may be seen
As will confound ye,
An' gar ye glowr out baith your een
At a' around ye.

To see sae mony bosoms bare,
An' sic huge puddins i' their hair,
An' some o' them wi' naething mair
Upo' their tete;
Yea, some wi' mutches that might scare
Craws frae their meet.

I ne'er appear'd before in print,
But for your sake wou'd fain be in't,
E'en that I might my wishes hint
That you'd write mair;
For sure your head-piece is a mint
Whare wit's nae rare.

Sonse fa' me, gif I hadna lure
I cou'd command ilk Muse as sure,
Than hae a chariot at the door
To wait upo' me;
Tho', poet-like, I'm but a poor
Mid-Lothian Johnnie.