They say our fiddle's auld an' deen,
Or neen o' 's now that ken the teen
O' Lallan Scots or Aiberdeen
To kittle up
An' prink the thing as ticht an' keen
As crack o' fup.
But na; I'll nae believe 't just yet,
That a' our loons hae tint the wit
To stent the strings in tune to fit
Our native MUSE —
Tho' she 's a mark that 's ill to hit,
Ye may jalouse.
Our Genius o' Strathspeys an' Reels ,
Has nae a peer for lichtsome heels:
And nyod her e'en are just twa deils
At sklintin throu'
The tricks an' shifts that men an' feils
Wad gar ye trow.
The slee'st, pawky queyn is she,
Wi' merry glints, but nae o'er free;
Aye slow to fecht but dour 's can be
Whan teeth are set;
And neen I ken mair trig to see
That takes the gate.
The first to string our Norlan' fiddle ,
An' bowin' fore an' aft the middle,
Gar grave and gay play jink and diddle
Wi' variorum ;
Was HE that did our moods unriddle
In " TULLOCHGORUM. "
Whar Nor-East win's sae bitter bla'
An' Nature bids to stan' or fa',
He set a creed o' worth for 's a'
In that ae lyric
That RHYMER ROB vowed " best o' a', "
For panegyric.
But B ARDS I wat we 've had sin' syne
Hae vrutten monie a gracious line
In honour o' the SACRED NINE;
And for our M USE
There 's aye been lads to deck the shrine
And fill her cruse.
Whar U RIE wynds to meet the D ON ,
And BENNACHIE towers up ayon,
There poet T HOM her pity won;
And not in vain
The string that thrill't sall aye thrill on
In tender pain.
And A LEXANDER — be 't in prose;
Our fiddle's gamut shrewdly knows;
In native humours, quips, an' woes
He 's farest ben,
An' by some wizard gift he shows
The fouk we ken.
There's wheedlin sleekit C HARLIE M URRAY ,
He tigs the strings wi' funny hurry
Till kittlan rhymes flee roun' and scurry
Wi' cantrip words
That jouk an' jink an' baffle worry,
Wi' lauchin dirds.
At P ITTYVAICH the distaff side
Essays the strings wi' native pride,
And ardent moods the chords fling wide
To vaunt the fame
O' loons that bled on field and tide
In SCOTLAND'S name.
An' Och! we 're near eneuch to claim
Yon pawky lass wi' he'rt aflame
That sings the MEARNS: we needna shame,
For twa sic een
To twyn yon " horseman " o' the game
He has na seen.
But hoot! — I'm nae to name them a',
That screw the pins an' lilt awa
On our auld Strad : — fouk mauna bla'
An' reese their ain! —
Gin they be fechtin' cocks they 'll cra'
Abeen disdain.
Na fy! — our fiddle's nae gaen deen,
Nor hae we lost our Native teen :
Nae farer back nor gin the streen
Was said and sung —
Or Mem'ry doitit chaets me clean —
The Mither tongue : —
Nae farer back: tho' in atween
The snaws o' fifty year I've seen:
But aye the bairn-time words bide green
At he'rt o' 's a';
And, B UCHAN braid or G ARIOCH keen ,
They hamewith dra'.
Or neen o' 's now that ken the teen
O' Lallan Scots or Aiberdeen
To kittle up
An' prink the thing as ticht an' keen
As crack o' fup.
But na; I'll nae believe 't just yet,
That a' our loons hae tint the wit
To stent the strings in tune to fit
Our native MUSE —
Tho' she 's a mark that 's ill to hit,
Ye may jalouse.
Our Genius o' Strathspeys an' Reels ,
Has nae a peer for lichtsome heels:
And nyod her e'en are just twa deils
At sklintin throu'
The tricks an' shifts that men an' feils
Wad gar ye trow.
The slee'st, pawky queyn is she,
Wi' merry glints, but nae o'er free;
Aye slow to fecht but dour 's can be
Whan teeth are set;
And neen I ken mair trig to see
That takes the gate.
The first to string our Norlan' fiddle ,
An' bowin' fore an' aft the middle,
Gar grave and gay play jink and diddle
Wi' variorum ;
Was HE that did our moods unriddle
In " TULLOCHGORUM. "
Whar Nor-East win's sae bitter bla'
An' Nature bids to stan' or fa',
He set a creed o' worth for 's a'
In that ae lyric
That RHYMER ROB vowed " best o' a', "
For panegyric.
But B ARDS I wat we 've had sin' syne
Hae vrutten monie a gracious line
In honour o' the SACRED NINE;
And for our M USE
There 's aye been lads to deck the shrine
And fill her cruse.
Whar U RIE wynds to meet the D ON ,
And BENNACHIE towers up ayon,
There poet T HOM her pity won;
And not in vain
The string that thrill't sall aye thrill on
In tender pain.
And A LEXANDER — be 't in prose;
Our fiddle's gamut shrewdly knows;
In native humours, quips, an' woes
He 's farest ben,
An' by some wizard gift he shows
The fouk we ken.
There's wheedlin sleekit C HARLIE M URRAY ,
He tigs the strings wi' funny hurry
Till kittlan rhymes flee roun' and scurry
Wi' cantrip words
That jouk an' jink an' baffle worry,
Wi' lauchin dirds.
At P ITTYVAICH the distaff side
Essays the strings wi' native pride,
And ardent moods the chords fling wide
To vaunt the fame
O' loons that bled on field and tide
In SCOTLAND'S name.
An' Och! we 're near eneuch to claim
Yon pawky lass wi' he'rt aflame
That sings the MEARNS: we needna shame,
For twa sic een
To twyn yon " horseman " o' the game
He has na seen.
But hoot! — I'm nae to name them a',
That screw the pins an' lilt awa
On our auld Strad : — fouk mauna bla'
An' reese their ain! —
Gin they be fechtin' cocks they 'll cra'
Abeen disdain.
Na fy! — our fiddle's nae gaen deen,
Nor hae we lost our Native teen :
Nae farer back nor gin the streen
Was said and sung —
Or Mem'ry doitit chaets me clean —
The Mither tongue : —
Nae farer back: tho' in atween
The snaws o' fifty year I've seen:
But aye the bairn-time words bide green
At he'rt o' 's a';
And, B UCHAN braid or G ARIOCH keen ,
They hamewith dra'.