Classic Poem

In July month, ae bonny morn,
Whan Nature's rokelay green
Was spread o'er ilka rigg o' corn
To charm our roving een;
Glouring about I saw a quean,
The fairest 'neath the lift;
Her een were o' the siller sheen,
Her skin like snawy drift,
Sae white that day.

Quoth she, “I ferly unco sair,
“That ye sud musand gae,
“Ye wha hae sung o' Hallow-fair,
“Her winter pranks and plays;
“Whan on Leith-sands the racers rare,
“Wi' jockey louns are met,
“Their orro pennies there to ware,
“And drown themsel's in debt
“Fu' deep that day.”

An wha are ye my winsome dear,
That takes the gate sae early?
Whare do ye win, gin ane may spear,
For I right meikle ferly,
That sic braw buskit laughing lass
Thir bonny blinks shou'd gie,
An' loup like Hebe o'er the grass,
As wanton and as free
Frae dule this day?

“I dwall among the caller springs
“That weet the Land o' Cakes,
“And aften tune my canty strings
“At bridals and late-wakes.
“They ca' me Mirth ; Ine'er was kend
“To grumble or look sour,
“But blythe wad be a lift to lend,
“Gin ye wad sey my pow'r
“An' pith this day.”

A bargain be't, and, by my fegs,
Gif ye will be my mate,
Wi' you I'll screw the cherry pegs;
Ye shanna find me blate;
We'll reel and ramble through the sands,
An' jeer wi' a' we meet;
Nor hip the daft an' gleesome bands
That fill Edina's street
Sae thrang this day.

Ere servant maids had wont to rise
To seeth the breakfast kettle,
Ilk dame her brawest ribbons tries,
To put her on her mettle,
Wi' wiles some silly chiel to trap
(An' troth he's fain to get her,)
But she'll craw kniefly in his crap,
Whan, wow! he canna flit her
Frae hame that day.

Now mony a sca'd and bare-ars'd lown
Rise early to their wark,
Eneugh to fley a muckle town,
Wi' dinsome squeel an' bark:
“Here is the true an' faithfu' list
“O' noblemen an' horses;
“Their eild, their weight, their height, their grist,
“That rin for plates or purses
“Fu' fleet this day.”

To whisky plooks that brunt for wooks
On town-guard soldiers faces,
Their barber bauld his whittle crooks
An' scrapes them for the races:
Their stumps erst us'd to filipegs,
Are dight in spatterdashes,
Whase barkent hides scarce fend their legs
Frae weet an' weary plashes
O' dirt that day.

“Come, hafe a care (the Captain cries),
“On guns your bagnets thraw;
“Now mind your manual exercise,
“And marsh down raw by raw.”
And as they march he'll glowr about,
Tent a' their cuts and scars;
'Mang them fell mony a gausy snout
Has gusht in birth-day wars,
Wi' blude that day.

Her nanesel maun be carefu' now,
Nor maun she be misleard,
Sin baxter lads hae seal'd a vow
To skelp an' clout the guard;
I'm sure Auld Reikie kens o' nane
That would be sorry at it,
Tho' they should dearly pay the kane,
An' get their tails weel sautit
An' sair thir days.

The tinkler billies i' the Bow
Are now less eident clinking,
As langs their pith or siller dow,
They're daffin and they're drinking.
Bedown Leith-walk what bourochs reel
O' ilka trade and station,
That gar their wives an' childer feel
Toom wames for their libation
O' drink thir days.

The browster wives thegither harl
A' trash that they can fa' on;
They rake the grunds o' ilka barrel,
To profit by the lawen:
For weel wat they a skin leal het
For drinking needs nae hire;
At drumly gear they tak nae pet;
Foul water slockens fire,
And druth thir days.

They say ill ale has been the deid
O' mony a beirdly lown;
Then dinna gape like gleds wi' greed
To sweel hail bickers down;
Gin Lord send mony ane the morn,
They'll ban fu' sair the time
That e'er they toutit aff the horn,
Which wambles thro' their wame
Wi' pain that day.

The Buchan bodies thro' the beech
Their bunch o' Findrums cry,
An' skirl out baul', in Norland speech,
“Guid speldings fa' will buy?”
An', by my saul, they're nae wrang gear
To gust a stirrah's mow;
Weel staw'd wi' them he'll never spear
The price o' being fu'
Wi' drink that day.

Now wyly wights at rowly powl,
An' flingan' o' the dice,
Here break the banes o' mony a soul
W' fa's upo' the ice:
At first the gate seems fair an' straught
Sae they had fairly till her;
But wow! in spite o' a' their maught,
They're rookit o' their siller
An' gowd that day.

Around where'er you fling your een,
The haiks like wind are scourin';
Some chaises honest folk contain,
An' some hae mony a whore in;
Wi' rose and lilly, red and white,
They gie themselves sic fit airs,
Like Dian they will seem perfite;
But it's nae gowd that glitters
Wi' them thir days.

The lion here wi' open paw,
May cleek in mony hunder,
Wha geck at Scotland and her law,
His wyly talons under;
For ken, tho' Jamie's laws are auld,
(Thanks to the wise recorder!)
His lion yet roars loud and bauld,
To had the whigs in order
Sae prime this day.

To town-guard drum, of clangour clear,
Baith men and steeds are raingit;
Some liv'ries red or yellow wear,
And some are tartan spraingit;
And now the red, the blue e'en-now,
Bids fairest for the market;
But, ere the sport be done, I trow
Their skins are gayly yarkit
And peel'd thir days.

Siclike in Pantheon debates,
Whan twa chiels hae a pingle;
E'en now some coulie gets his aits,
An' dirt wi' words they mingle;
Till up loups he wi' diction fu',
There's lang and dreech contesting;
For now they're near the point in view,
Now ten miles frae the question
In hand that night.

The races o'er, they hale the dools
Wi' drink o' a' kin-kind;
Great feck gae hirpling hame like fools,
The cripple lead the blind.
May ne'er the canker o' the drink
E'er mak our spirits thrawart,
'Case we git wharewitha' to wink
Wi' een as blue's a blawart
Wi' straiks thir days!