Ochil Idylls and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ye that are lords o' fix'd degree,
Ye that are lords by whylies;
Ye proveses o' rank, an ye
That are but baron-bailies;
Ye members o' the sheyres an' brochs,
Win up, an' haud ye ready
To boo your backs an' crook your hochs
Afore your sovran leddy!

Ye ministers, an' men o' weir,
Peace sogers, an' laund sailors,
Auld heroes to the service dear,
An' young anes dear to tailors;
Ye new-made knichts an' nobles a'—
She made ye men o' honour—
Weel may ye rise up in a raw
An' shooer your thanks upon her.

Ye waitin' dames, sae dink an' braw,
Wi' laids o' costly claithin';
Ye bonnie lassies best o' a',
Wi' just a flooer, or naething;

Ye office-wands, an' flunkey lords,
An' pages pouther'd meetly—
Noo haud a ticht grip o' the cords
An' guide the course discreetly!

Ye college dons, fra proctor doun
To him that but professes,
Noo, noo's the time to tuck your goun
An' draw up your addresses:
And let your Latin be as snug
As if she kent the roond o't,
For, by my faith! she'll lend a lug,
An' judge ye by the soond o't!

Ye parsons, groanin' aye wi' griefs,
The warld's maybe mendin'!
Ye lawwers, lay aside your briefs;
Ill-named, they ne'er have endin'!
An' tak' the hills, or tak' the dales,
As wild as e'er ye wander'd,
Like laddies broken fra the schules,
An' free o' stripes an' standard!

And lastly, ye that flood the street,
A roarin' spate o' people,
Splashed up to wa' an' window-seat,
To chimla-stack an' steeple,—

It sets your mou's to mak' the din
Ye may indulge the morn,
But dinna loup oot o' your skin,
An' be content wi' roarin'!

Postscript.

Ye hills, sune to be bleezin' hie,
As if by lichtnin' smitten;
Ye kintras, scatter'd owre the sea,
That mak' the greater Britain,
Shout an' shine oot! tell a' that speer,
Wi' a' the speed ye may, noo,
That, efter towlin' fifty year,
Oor queen tak's holiday, noo!