Classic Poem

O cou'd I sing as R AMSAY sung,
And far-fam'd F ERGUSSON ,
Or if my lyre it were but strung
Like R AB 's the Mauchline clown:
But as I can, I'll try to sing,
What happ's ilk year in Lunnon,
Whare laddies meet to dance a spring
Wi' lasses, to raise fun on
St A NDREW'S Day .

Here Norlan' Lords and Ladies fair,
Great merchants i' the city,
Club, like true Scotsmen, here and there,
Wi' wives and wantons witty.
In Spittlefields braw Wabsters meet,
Snabs i' the strand are merry,
Gash Taylors strut bauld up the Fleet,
Rose-lane and Bedsordberry,
On our Saunt's day.

I met, (when daddlin' ance for wark)
Jock Lawson the Scots baker,
Dermot, wi' Forrest, Hodge an' Clark,
Wi' Withart in Lang-Acre:
We gaed to bouse, (ye needna doubt)
At purl as clear as amber;
And settled Scots affairs, about
The Thirtieth o' November,
Our ain Saunt's day.

The house we nam'd for haly day,
Was ca'd the Auld Scots Thistle;
Our landlord came fre yont Strathspey,
Blyth, bonny Sandy Russel,
A dinner there, o' guid sheep-heads,
An' routh o' rare Scots haggies,
W' herrin' for to taste our gabbs,
An' kail to fill our baggies,
On our Saunt's day.

I straught Rob Hutchison employs,
A rare Scots cat-gut scraper;
And a' the Caledonian boys,
Were bid Scots reels to caper.
Yet nane we bade bat just the tone,
Wha bauldly wad their hand draw
A trusty sword for Caledon'
In honour of Saunt Andrew,
On ony day.

The merry day is come at last,
When our braw Lawlan' waggies,
Shine in braid claith, the e'en to feast
O' our braw bonny Maggies.
Hech Sirs! I ne'er saw sic a sight
O' sweet mou'd Norlan' roses:
Sae nutt, sae gash, sae trim an tight,
Wi' blue Saunt Andrew's Crosses,
On our Saunt's day.

Our Highland lads, in Tartan dress,
Their toop-head swords are glitt'rin';
Ilk pays respects until their Bess,
And nought but Gaelic chatt'rin'
We fine a' the high-stown fock,
Cracks English or Italic;
For nought gangs down there, or is spoke,
But Lawlan's braid, or Gaelic,
On our Saunt's day.

The first ane that did fit the floor,
Was prize-man Jemmy Inglis ,
Wha aft has dung the English power,
Wi' Hunter prince o' Lingles .
When a' the horn-pipes were o'er,
The reels syne next advances;
Then up starts couples twenty four,
And danc'd fax kintra-dances.
On our Saunt's day

Sure there was ne'er in E'mbro' town,
At Scoon, Kew, or Saunt James's,
Sic merry songs, and social fun,
As Sandy's on the Thames — his.
We dang the sports o' Drury-lane,
New-market, or Leith races;
Or yet the boasted pride o' Spain,
When Don the wild bull faces,
On our Saunt's day.

Syne up gat Davy Risk to spout,
And Geordy for a wager.
At Glaud an' Sym' they had a bout,
Jens', Peggy, Pate and Roger.
Then like ane sung sangs sae sweet,
Frae Fergusson an' Burns;
While ilka lad his lass did treat
Wi' oranges and curran's
On our Saunt's day.

Kate on the board the claith next spreads,
And Mall brings barley-kail in,
Wi' great noot-feet and sing'd sheep-heads,
Fat haggis we eat — meal in.
Red herrin', wi' the prime o' fish,
Guid sa'mon fresh frae Stirlin';
Tat brose and collops made aught dish,
Whilk set our bawbees birlin'
For drink that night.

To ilka plate we stood right staunch,
Till like a drum was Kitty,
Syne came a muckle bowl of punch
Made strong wi' aquavitae.
Next bread and cheese our seast did crown,
Short bread and butter'd bakes:
An' a' the warl's health gaed roun'
As well's the land o' cakes.
On our Saunt's night.

When we had gotten rowth o' drink,
Then up starts Rab the browster;
He gard us nimble kiss an' jink,
At dancing Bob at the Bowster.
The pipes and fiddles play'd sae flight,
That sweatin' was our younkers:
For we danc'd Barm till day light,
An' twa thrce kintra bunkers,
A merry fray.

When partin' now to get a nap,
We met a mob o' vermin,
Ane hit Will Stark a dev'lish slap,
Which set our sauls on fire, man;
Syne out came durk, braid sword, and targe,
Whilk made them soon retire, man;
When Inglis did command the charge,
An' valiant Jock M'Dermin,
An' Johnny Kay.

Wi' bloody snouts, and broken crowns,
And mony a swall'd blue e'e,
We gar'd the filthy Saxon lowns,
And blackguard Irish flee.
They skirl'd just sic anither sang,
(When we wand them yon pirn)
As their forebears, wha lost the fang
Wi' Ned-at Bannockburn,
In BRUCE's day.