Classic Poem

Chorus

Ho ro we love the drappie
And mony a man is gone on't.

My love is the stout bold sonny,
Grown brisk, spirited and bonnie,
Esteemed, clannish, clever mannie,
Not weak in a squabble.

But the ease she got in worries —
The crone that one time lived in Harris —
I will praise thee no worse for this
That her tune I follow.

This tune chose she, thy fame showing,
Well the nip i' the drappie knowing;
When out-o'-sorts-fit undergoing,
She'd wish thou were near her.

But thou art the flatterer tender,
Who our bad mood past could render,
Thou would warm us in December
When came surly winter.

Ferintosh stuff, pure unblended,
Right cordial, there's none to mend it,
My mind thou to bliss would send it,
But not the trash of France.

Thou'rt the gay lad, brisk and bonnie,
Would stir auld wives to good moods mony,
And gar maids talk as well as ony,
Maugre their modesty.

In a cowherd thou'd put merit,
In a scarecrow thou'd cram spirit,
So mild thou would make a worrit
That he'd give over girning.

Thou'rt my hero quiet, civil;
Save where thou art there's no revel,
Thou wilt cast forth every snivel,
And out of strife bring peace.

Thy followers are handsome gentry,
They'll be free with wealth in plenty,
In the tavern they, not scanty,
Scatter gold in handfuls.

There's no cleric or church-person,
Saint, philosopher or parson,
But thou'llt make a different version,
Cramming sense in blockheads.

In the realm there's no upsetter,
Who striving with thee will be better,
Him thou'd leave stretched in the gutter,
From both ends eructations.

Thou would leave the bare man nappy,
Thou would make the silent snappy,
Thou would set the sad man happy
With thy lively pleasures.

A lame man thou'd leave so pain-free
That he forgets ach! och! waes me!
On one stump rising in such glee
That like a fop he's dancing.

Thou'd set carles to caressin',
An' the bent aged, stumpy, weazen,
To rise canty in a messin'
In mockery of age.

Thou wert my ideal of lovers,
Though the women said there's no worse,
When i' the nook thou'llt with them converse,
Thou, maugre them, wilt win.

A friend to him who'd speech deliver,
Thou'd give him freedom quickly ever,
Though but a gill of thee in's quiver,
How tasteful is his speech!

The many gifts that thee encumber,
Till doomsday I can never number,
But this thy fame spread always somewhere —
Bards were to thee devoted.

That I'm worse o' thee's laid upon thee,
That unkenned thou stole my money,
But maugre all those that disown thee
I credit not a snarl o't.

But time was thou me didst support,
To dullards this of no import,
Dum amabam, sed quid refert,
Or the baggage quae amanda .