Classic Poem

Oh! qualis hurly-burly fuit, si forte vidisses.

POLEMO-MIDDINIA .

I SING the day sae aften sung,
Wi' which our lugs hae yearly rung,
In whase loud praise the Muse has dung
A' kind o' print;
But wow! the limmer's fairly flung;
There's naithing in't.

I'm fain to think the joy's the same
In London town as here at hame,
Whare fouk o' ilka age and name,
Baith blind an' cripple,
Forgather aft, O fy for shame!
To drink an' tipple.

O Muse, be kind, an' dinna fash us
To flee awa' beyont Parnassus,
Nor seek for Helicon to wash us,
That heath'nish spring;
Wi' Highland whisky scour our hawses,
An' gar us sing.

Begin then, dame, ye've drunk your fill,
You woudna hae the tither gill?
You'll trust me, mair would do you ill,
An' ding you doitet:
Troth 'twould be sair against my will
To hae the wyte o't.

Sing then, how, on the fourth of June,
Our bells screed aff a loyal tune,
Our ancient castle shoots at noon,
Wi' flag-staff buskit,
Frae which the soger blades come down
To cock their musket.

Oh willawins! Mons Meg, for you,
'Twas firing crack't thy muckle mou;
What black mishanter gart ye spew
Baith gut an' ga'!
I fear they bang'd thy belly fu'
Against the law.

Right seenil am I gi'en to bannin,
But, by my saul, ye was a cannon,
Cou'd hit a man had he been stannin
In shire o' Fife,
Sax lang Scots miles ayont Clackmannan,
An' tak his life.

The hills in terror wou'd cry out,
An' echo to thy dinsome rout;
The herds wou'd gather in their nowt,
That glowr'd wi' wonder,
Haflins afley'd to bide thereout
To hear thy thunder.

Sing likewise, Muse, how Blue-gown bodies,
Like scar-craws new ta'en down frae woodies,
Come here to cast their clouted duddies,
An' get their pay:
Than them what magistrate mair proud is
On king's birth-day?

On this great day the city-guard,
In military art weel lear'd,
Wi' powder'd pow and shaven beard,
Gang thro' their functions,
By hostile rabble seldom spar'd
O' clatty unctions.

O soldiers! for your ain dear sakes,
For Scotland's, alias, Land o' Cakes ,
Gie not her bairns sie deadly pakes,
Nor be sae rude,
Wi' firelock or Lochaber aix,
As spill their blude.

Now round an' round the serpents whiz,
Wi' hissing wrath and angry phiz;
Sometimes they catch a gentle gizz,
Alack-a-day!
An' singe wi' hair-devouring bizz,
Its curls away.

Shou'd th' owner patiently keek round,
To view the nature o' his wound,
Dead pussie, draggled thro' the pond,
Taks him a lounder,
Whilk lays his honour on the ground
As flat's a flounder.

The Muse maun also now implore
Auld wives to steek ilk hole an' bore;
If badrins slip but to the door,
I fear, I fear,
She'll nae lang shank upo' all four
This time o' year.

Neist day ilk hero tells his news,
O' crackit crowns and broken brows,
An' deeds that here forbid the Muse
Her theme to swell,
Or time mair precious to abuse
Their crimes to tell,

She'll rather to the fields resort,
Whare music gars the day seem short,
Whare doggies play, and lambies sport,
On gowany braes,
Whare peerless Fancy hads her court,
And tunes her lays.