Sic as hae aften rax'd the wyme
O' blyther fallows mony time;
Mair hardy, souple, steeve, and swank,
Than ever stood on Samy's shank.
Imprimis, then, a haggis fat,
Weel tottled in a seything pat,
Wi' spice and ingans weel ca'd thro',
Had help'd to gust the stirrah's mou,
And plac'd itsel in truncher clean
Before the gilpy's glowrin een.
Secundo, then, a gude sheep's head,
Whase hide was singit, never flea'd,
And four black trotters clad wi' girsle,
Bedown his throat had learn'd to hirsle.
What think ye, niest, o' gude fat brose,
To clag his ribs, a dainty dose?
And white and bluidy puddings routh,
Το gar the Doctor skirl, "O Drouth!"
Whan he cou'd never houp to merit
A cordial glass o' reamin claret,
But thraw his nose, and birze, and pegh,
Owre the contents o' sma' ale quegh.
Then, let his wisdom girn and snarl
O'er a weel-tostit girdle farl,
And learn, that, maugre o' his wyme,
Ill bairns are ay best heard at hame.
Drummond, lang syne, o' Hawthornden, The wyliest and best o' men,
Has gien you dishes ane or mae,
That wad hae gar'd his grinders play,
Not to "Roast Beef*," old England's life!
But to the auld "East Nook o' Fife*,
Where Craillian crafts cou'd weel hae gien
Skate-rumples to hae clear'd his een ;
Then, niest, whan Samy's heart was faintin,
He'd lang'd for skate to mak him wanton.
Ah, willawins for Scotland now!
Whan she maun stap ilk birky's mou
Wi' eistacks, grown as 'twere in pet
In foreign land, or greenhouse het,
Whan cog o' brose, and cutty spoon,
Is a' your cottar childers' boon,
Wha thro' the week, till Sunday's speal,
Toil for pease-clods and gude lang kail.
Devall then, Sirs, and never send For daintiths to regale a friend;
Or, like a torch at baith ends burnin,
Your house will soon grow mirk and mournin !
* Alluding to two tunes under these titles.
What's this I hear some cynic say* ?—
Robin, ye loun! it's nae fair play;
Is there nae ither subject rife
To clap your thumb upon but Fife?
Gie owre, young man! you'll meet your cornin,
Than caption waur, or charge o' hornin ;
Some canker'd, surly, sour-mou'd carlin,
Bred near the abbey o' Dumfarline,
Your shoulders yet may gie a lounder,
And be o' verse the mal-confounder.
Come on, ye blades! but ere ye tulzie,
Or hack our flesh wi' sword or gullie,
Ne'er shaw your teeth, nor look like stink,
Nor owre an empty bicker blink :
What weets the wizen and the wyme,
Will mend your prose, and heal my rhyme.
* The Poet alludes to a gentleman in Dunfermline, who sent him a challenge, being highly offended at the concluding reflection in the "Expedition to Fife."
Porter to the University of St Andrew's.
DEATH! what's ado? the deil be licket,
Or wi' your stang you ne'er had pricket,
Or our auld Alma Mater tricket,
And trail'd him ben thro' your
Now ilka glaikit scholar loun
May dander wae wi' duddy gown ;
Kate Kennedy* to dowie crune
May mourn and clink,
And steeples o' Saunt Andrew's Town
* A bell in the college steeple.
Sin' Pauly Tam*, wi' canker'd snout,
First held the students in about,
To wear their claes as black as soot,
They ne'er had reason,
Till Death John's haffit gae a clout,
Sae out o' season.
Whan Regents met at common schools,
He taught auld Tam to hale the dools,
And eident to row right the bowls,
Like ony emmack ;
He kept us a' within the rules
Strict academic.
Heh! wha will tell the students now
To meet the Pauly cheek for chow,
Whan he, like frightsome wirrikow,
Had wont to rail,
And set our stamacks in a low,
Or we turn'd tail ?
Ah, Johnny! aften did I grumble
Frae cozy bed fu' ear' to tumble,
Whan art and part I'd been in some ill,
Troth, I was swear:
His words they brodit like a wumill,
* A name given by the students to one of the members of the University.
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