Classic Poem

Air — Cauld kail in Aberdeen.

When Poortith cauld, and sour Disdain,
Hang o'er life's vale sae foggie,
The sun that brightens up the scene,
Is Friendship's kindly coggie.
Then O revere the coggie, sirs!
The friendly, social coggie!
It gars the wheels of life run light,
Though e'er sae doilt and cloggie.

Let Pride in Fortune's chariots fly,
Sae empty, vain, and vogie;
The source of wit, the spring of joy,
Lies in the social coggie.
Then O revere the coggie, sirs!
The independent coggie!
And never snool beneath the frown
Of ony selfish roguie.

Poor modest worth, with chearless e'e,
Sits hurkling in the boggie,
Till she asserts her dignity,
By virtue of the coggie.
Then O revere the coggie, sirs!
The poor man's patron coggie!
It warsels care, it fights life's faughts,
And lifts him frae the boggie.

Gi'e feckless Spain her weak snail broo,
Gi'e France her weel spic'd froggie,
Gi'e brother John his luncheon too,
But gi'e to us our coggie.
Then O revere the coggie, sirs!
Our soul-warm kindred coggie!
Hearts doubly knit in social tie,
When just a wee thought groggie.

In days of yore our sturdy sires
Upon their hills sae scroggie,
Glow'd with true freedom's warmest fires,
And fought to save their coggie.
Then O revere the coggie, sirs!
Our brave forefather's coggie!
It rous'd them up to doughty deeds,
O'er which we'll lang be vogie.

Then, here's may Scotland ne'er fa' down,
A cringing coward doggie,
But bauldly stand and bang the loon,
Wha'd reave her of her coggie.
Then, O protect the coggie, sirs!
Our good auld mother's coggie!
Nor let her luggie e'er be drain'd
By ony foreign roguie.