The Poems of Robert Fergusson Edited by Matthew P. McDiarmid |
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To the Principal and Professors of the University
of St Andrews, on their superb treat to Dr Samuel Johnson.
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 | The Poems of Robert Fergusson |  |
To the Principal and Professors of the University of St Andrews, on their superb treat to Dr Samuel Johnson.
St Andrews town may look right gawsy,
Nae Grass will grow upon her cawsey,
Nor wa'-flow'rs of a yellow dye,
Glour dowy o'er her Ruins high,
Sin Samy's head weel pang'd wi' lear
Has seen the Alma Mater there:
Regents, my winsome billy boys!
'Bout him you've made an unco noise;
Nae doubt for him your bells wad clink,
To find him upon Eden's brink,
An' a' things nicely set in order,
Wad kep him on the Fifan border:
I'se warrant now frae France an' Spain,
Baith Cooks and Scullions mony ane
Wad gar the pats an' kettles tingle
Around the college kitchen ingle,
To fleg frae a' your craigs the roup,
Wi' reeking het and crieshy soup;
And snails and puddocks mony hunder
Wad beeking lie the hearth-stane under,
Wi' roast and boild, an' a' kin kind,
To heat the body, cool the mind.
Nae Grass will grow upon her cawsey,
Nor wa'-flow'rs of a yellow dye,
Glour dowy o'er her Ruins high,
Sin Samy's head weel pang'd wi' lear
Has seen the Alma Mater there:
183
'Bout him you've made an unco noise;
Nae doubt for him your bells wad clink,
To find him upon Eden's brink,
An' a' things nicely set in order,
Wad kep him on the Fifan border:
I'se warrant now frae France an' Spain,
Baith Cooks and Scullions mony ane
Wad gar the pats an' kettles tingle
Around the college kitchen ingle,
To fleg frae a' your craigs the roup,
Wi' reeking het and crieshy soup;
And snails and puddocks mony hunder
Wad beeking lie the hearth-stane under,
Wi' roast and boild, an' a' kin kind,
To heat the body, cool the mind.
But hear me lads! gin I'd been there,
How I wad trimm'd the bill o' fare!
For ne'er sic surly wight as he
Had met wi' sic respect frae me,
Mind ye what Sam, the lying loun!
Has in his Dictionar laid down?
That Aits in England are a feast
To cow an' horse, an' sican beast,
While in Scots ground this growth was common
To gust the gab o' Man an' Woman.
Tak tent, ye Regents! then, an' hear
My list o' gudely hamel gear,
Sic as ha'e often rax'd the wyme
O' blyther fallows mony time;
Mair hardy, souple, steive an' swank,
Than ever stood on Samy's shank.
How I wad trimm'd the bill o' fare!
For ne'er sic surly wight as he
Had met wi' sic respect frae me,
Mind ye what Sam, the lying loun!
Has in his Dictionar laid down?
That Aits in England are a feast
To cow an' horse, an' sican beast,
While in Scots ground this growth was common
To gust the gab o' Man an' Woman.
Tak tent, ye Regents! then, an' hear
My list o' gudely hamel gear,
Sic as ha'e often rax'd the wyme
O' blyther fallows mony time;
Mair hardy, souple, steive an' swank,
Than ever stood on Samy's shank.
Imprimis, then, a haggis fat,
Weel tottl'd in a seything pat,
Wi' spice and ingans weel ca'd thro',
Had help'd to gust the stirrah's mow,
And plac'd itsel in truncher clean
Before the gilpy's glowrin een.
Weel tottl'd in a seything pat,
Wi' spice and ingans weel ca'd thro',
Had help'd to gust the stirrah's mow,
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Before the gilpy's glowrin een.
Secundo, then a gude sheep's head
Whase hide was singit, never flead,
And four black trotters cled wi' girsle,
Bedown his throat had learn'd to hirsle.
What think ye neist, o' gude fat brose
To clag his ribs? a dainty dose!
And white and bloody puddins routh,
To gar the Doctor skirl, O Drouth!
Whan he cou'd never houp to merit
A cordial o' reaming claret,
But thraw his nose, and brize and pegh
O'er the contents o' sma' ale quegh:
Then let his wisdom girn an' snarl
O'er a weel-tostit girdle farl,
An' learn, that maugre o' his wame,
Ill bairns are ay best heard at hame.
Whase hide was singit, never flead,
And four black trotters cled wi' girsle,
Bedown his throat had learn'd to hirsle.
What think ye neist, o' gude fat brose
To clag his ribs? a dainty dose!
And white and bloody puddins routh,
To gar the Doctor skirl, O Drouth!
Whan he cou'd never houp to merit
A cordial o' reaming claret,
But thraw his nose, and brize and pegh
O'er the contents o' sma' ale quegh:
Then let his wisdom girn an' snarl
O'er a weel-tostit girdle farl,
An' learn, that maugre o' his wame,
Ill bairns are ay best heard at hame.
Drummond, lang syne, o' Hawthornden,
The wyliest an' best o' men,
Has gi'en you dishes ane or mae,
That wad ha' gard his grinders play,
Not to roast beef, old England's life,
But to the auld east nook of Fife,
Whare Creilian crafts cou'd weel ha'e gi'en
Scate-rumples to ha'e clear'd his een;
Then neist, whan Samy's heart was faintin,
He'd lang'd for scate to mak him wanton.
The wyliest an' best o' men,
Has gi'en you dishes ane or mae,
That wad ha' gard his grinders play,
Not to roast beef, old England's life,
But to the auld east nook of Fife,
Whare Creilian crafts cou'd weel ha'e gi'en
Scate-rumples to ha'e clear'd his een;
Then neist, whan Samy's heart was faintin,
He'd lang'd for scate to mak him wanton.
Ah! willawins, for Scotland now,
Whan she maun stap ilk birky's mow
Wi' eistacks, grown as 'tware in pet
In foreign land, or green-house het,
When cog o' brose an' cutty spoon
Is a' our cottar childer's boon,
Wha thro' the week, till Sunday's speal,
Toil for pease-clods an' gude lang kail.
Devall then, Sirs, and never send
For daintiths to regale a friend,
Or, like a torch at baith ends burning,
Your house'll soon grow mirk and mourning.
Whan she maun stap ilk birky's mow
Wi' eistacks, grown as 'tware in pet
In foreign land, or green-house het,
When cog o' brose an' cutty spoon
Is a' our cottar childer's boon,
Wha thro' the week, till Sunday's speal,
Toil for pease-clods an' gude lang kail.
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For daintiths to regale a friend,
Or, like a torch at baith ends burning,
Your house'll soon grow mirk and mourning.
What's this I hear some cynic say?
Robin, ye loun! it's nae fair play;
Is there nae ither subject rife
To clap your thumb upon but Fife?
Gi'e o'er, young man, you'll meet your corning,
Than caption war, or charge o' horning;
Some canker'd surly sour-mow'd carline
Bred near the abbey o' Dumfarline,
Your shoulders yet may gi'e a lounder,
An' be of verse the mal-confounder.
Robin, ye loun! it's nae fair play;
Is there nae ither subject rife
To clap your thumb upon but Fife?
Gi'e o'er, young man, you'll meet your corning,
Than caption war, or charge o' horning;
Some canker'd surly sour-mow'd carline
Bred near the abbey o' Dumfarline,
Your shoulders yet may gi'e a lounder,
An' be of verse the mal-confounder.
Come on ye blades! but 'ere ye tulzie,
Or hack our flesh wi' sword or gulzie,
Ne'er shaw your teeth, nor look like stink,
Nor o'er an empty bicker blink:
What weets the wizen an' the wyme,
Will mend your prose and heal my rhyme.
Or hack our flesh wi' sword or gulzie,
Ne'er shaw your teeth, nor look like stink,
Nor o'er an empty bicker blink:
What weets the wizen an' the wyme,
Will mend your prose and heal my rhyme.
| The Poems of Robert Fergusson | |