Classic Poem

Rejoice , ye burghers, ane an' a',
 Lang look't for's come at last;
Sair war your backs held to the wa'
 Wi' poortith an' wi' fast:
Now ye may clap your wings an' craw,
 And gayly busk ilk' feather,
For deacon cocks hae pass'd a law
 To rax an' weet your leather
Wi' drink thir days,

Haste Epps, quo' John, and bring my gizz!
 Tak tent ye dinna't spulzie;
Last night the barber gae't a frizz,
 An' straikit it-wi' ulzie.
Hae done your paritch, lassie Lizz,
 Gie me my sark an' gravat;
I'se be as braw's the deacon is
 Whan he taks affidavit
O' faith the day.

Whare's Johnny gaun, cries neebour Bess,
 That he's sae gayly bodin,
Wi' new kaim'd wig, weel syndet face,
 Silk hose, for hamely hodin?
“Our Johnny's nae sma' drink you'll guess,
 “He's trig as ony muir-cock,
“An' forth to mak a deacon, lass;
 “He downa speak to poor fock
“Like us the day.”

The coat ben-by i' the kist-nook,
 That's been this towmonth swarmin,
Is brought yence mair thereout to look,
 To fleg awa the vermin;
Menzies o' moths an' flaes are shook,
 An' i' the floor they howder,
Till in a birn beneath the crook
 They're singet wi' a scowder
To death that day.

The canty cobler quats his sta',
 His rozet an' his lingans;
His buik has dreed a sair, sair fa'
 Frae meals o' bread an' ingans:
Now he's a pow o' wit an' law,
 An' taunts at soals an' heels;
To Walker's he can rin awa,
 There whang his creams an' jeels
Wi' life that day.

The lads in order tak their seat,
 (The de'il may clay the clungest!)
They stegh an' connoch sae the meat,
 Their teeth mak mair than tongue haste;
Their claes sae cleanly tight an' feat,
 An' eke their craw-black beavers,
Like masters mows hae found the gate
 To tassels teugh wi' slavers
Fu' lang that day.

The dinner done, for brandy strang
 They cry to weet their thrapple,
To gar the stamack bide the bang,
 Nor wi' its ladin' grapple.
The grace is said—its nane o'er lang;
 The claret reams in bells;
Quo' Deacon let the toast round gang,
 “Come here's our noble sel's
“Weel met the day.”

Weels me o'drink quo' Cooper Will,
 My barrel has been geyz'd ay,
An' has na gotten sic a fill
 Sin' fu' on Hansel-Teysday;
But makes-na, now it's got a sweel,
 Ae gird I shanna cast lad,
Or else I wish the horned de'il
 May Will wi' kittle cast dad
To h-ll the day.

The magistrates fu' wyly are,
 Their lamps are gayly blinkin,
But they might as lieve burn elsewhare,
 Whan fock's blind fu' wi' drinkin.
Our Deacon wadna ca' a chair,
 The foul ane durst him na-say;
He took shanks-naig, but fient may care!
 He arslins kiss'd the causey
Wi' bir that night

Weel loes me o' you, souter Jock,
 For tricks ye buit be trying,
Whan greapin for his ain bed-stock,
 He fa's whare Will's wife's lying:
Will coming hame wi' ither fock,
 He saw Jock there before him;
Wi' maister laiglen, like a brock,
 He did wi' stink maist smore him
Fu' strang that night.

Then wi' a souple leathern whang
 He gart them fidge and girn ay,
“Faith, chiel, ye's nae for naething gang,
 “Gin ye maun reel my pirny.”
Syne wi' a muckle alshin lang
 He brogit Maggie's hurdies;
An' cause he thought her i' the wrang,
 There pass'd nae bonny wordies
'Tween them that night.

Now, had some laird his lady fand
 In sic unseemly courses,
It might hae loos'd the haly band,
 Wi' law-suits an' divorces:
But the neist day they a' shook hands,
 And ilka crack did sowder,
While Meg for drink her apron pawns,
 For a' the gude-man cow'd her
Whan fu' last night.

Glowr round the cawsey, up an' down,
 What mobbing and what plotting!
Here politicians bribe a lown
 Against his saul for voting.
The gowd that inlakes half a crown
 Thir blades lug out to try them,
They pouch the gowd, nor fash the town
 For weights an' scales to weigh them
Exact that day.

Then Deacons at the counsel stent
 To get themsel's presentit:
For towmonths twa their saul is lent,
 For the town's gude indentit:
Lang's their debating thereanent,
 About protests they're bauthrin;
While Sandy Fife, to mak content,
 On bells plays, Clout the Caudron ,
To them that day.

Ye lowns that troke in doctor's stuff,
 You'll now hae unco slaisters;
Whan windy blaws their stamacks puff,
 They'll need baith pills and plaisters;
For tho' e'en-now they look right bluff,
 Sic drinks, ere hillocks meet,
Will hap some deacons in a truff,
 Inrow'd in the lang leet
O' death yon night.