 | The Poems of Robert Fergusson |  |
195
DUMFRIES.
The gods sure in some canny hour,
To bonny Nith hae t'aen a tour,
Whare bonny blinks the caller flow'r
Beside the stream,
And sportive there hae shawn their pow'r
In fairy dream.
To bonny Nith hae t'aen a tour,
Whare bonny blinks the caller flow'r
Beside the stream,
And sportive there hae shawn their pow'r
In fairy dream.
Had Kirkhill here but kent the gate,
The beauties on Dumfries that wait,
He'd never turn'd his canker'd pate
Of satire keen,
Whan ilka thing's sae trig and feat,
To cheer the ein.
The beauties on Dumfries that wait,
He'd never turn'd his canker'd pate
Of satire keen,
Whan ilka thing's sae trig and feat,
To cheer the ein.
I ken the stirrah loo'd fu' weil
Amang the drinking loons to reel,
An Claret wine or Porter sweel,
Whilk he cou'd get,
After a shank o' beer he'd peel,
His craig to wet.
Amang the drinking loons to reel,
An Claret wine or Porter sweel,
Whilk he cou'd get,
After a shank o' beer he'd peel,
His craig to wet.
Marshall's an Bushby's then had fund
Some kitchen gude, to lay the grund,
And Cheshire mites had helped to hund
And fley awa'
The heart-scad an' a scud o' wind
Frae stamach raw.
Some kitchen gude, to lay the grund,
And Cheshire mites had helped to hund
And fley awa'
The heart-scad an' a scud o' wind
Frae stamach raw.
196
Had Horace liv'd, that pleasant sinner,
That loo'd gude wine to synd his dinner,
His muse tho' douf, the de'il be in her,
She'd lous'd her tongue,
The drink cou'd round Parnassus rin her
In blythest sang.
That loo'd gude wine to synd his dinner,
His muse tho' douf, the de'il be in her,
She'd lous'd her tongue,
The drink cou'd round Parnassus rin her
In blythest sang.
Nae mair he'd sung to auld Maecenas,
The blinking ein o' bonny Venus,
His leave o' them he'd ta'en at anis
For Claret here,
Which Jove and a' his Gods still rain us
Frae year to year.
The blinking ein o' bonny Venus,
His leave o' them he'd ta'en at anis
For Claret here,
Which Jove and a' his Gods still rain us
Frae year to year.
O Jove, man, gie's some orrow pence,
Mair siller, an' a wie mair sense,
I'd big to you a rural spence,
An' bide a' simmer,
An' cald frae saul and body fence
With frequent brimmer.
Mair siller, an' a wie mair sense,
I'd big to you a rural spence,
An' bide a' simmer,
An' cald frae saul and body fence
With frequent brimmer.
| The Poems of Robert Fergusson | |