Classic Poem

1

When Eighty-five was seven month auld,
 And wearing thro' the aught,
When rotting rains and Boreas bauld
 Gied farmer-folks a faught;
Ae morning quondam Mason Will,
 Now Merchant Master Miller,
Gaed down to meet wi' Nansie Bell
 And her Jamaica siller,
To wed, that day.—

2

The rising sun o'er Blacksideen
 Was just appearing fairly,
When Nell and Bess get up to dress
 Seven lang half-hours o'er early!
Now presses clink and drawers jink,
 For linnens and for laces;
But modest Muses only think
 What ladies' under dress is,
On sic a day.—
3

But we'll suppose the stays are lac'd,
 And bony bosom steekit;
Tho', thro' the lawn—but guess the rest—
 An Angel scarce durst keekit:
Then stockins fine, o' silken twine,
 Wi' cannie care are drawn up;
And gartened tight, whare mortal wight—

*****. . . . .

. . . . .

But now the gown wi' rustling sound,
 Its silken pomp displays;
Sure there 's no sin in being vain
 O' siccan bony claes!
Sae jimp the waist, the tail sae vast—
 Trouth, they were bony Birdies!
O Mither Eve, ye wad been grave
 To see their ample hurdies
Sae large that day!!!

Then Sandy wi 's red jacket bra'
 Comes, whip-jee-whoa! about,
And in he gets the bony twa—
 Lord send them safely out!
And auld John Trot wi' sober phiz
 As braid and bra 's a Bailie,
His shouthers and his Sunday's giz
 Wi' powther and wi' ulzie
Weel smear'd that day—