 | Peter Cornclips |  |
THE DRYGATE BRIG.
Last Monday night, at sax o'clock,
To Miran Gibb's I went, man,
To snuff an' crack an' toom the cap,
It was my hale intent, man:
So down I sat an' pried the yill,
Syne luggit out my sneeshin' mill,
An' took a pinch wi' right good will,
O' beggar's brown, (the best in town,)
Then sent it roun' about the room,
To gie ilk ane a scent, man.
To Miran Gibb's I went, man,
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It was my hale intent, man:
So down I sat an' pried the yill,
Syne luggit out my sneeshin' mill,
An' took a pinch wi' right good will,
O' beggar's brown, (the best in town,)
Then sent it roun' about the room,
To gie ilk ane a scent, man.
Our club consisted,—let me see,—
O' aught auld canty carles, man,
Whase rule was aye nae room to gie,
To ony needless quarrels, man;
Guid yill, plain snuff an social crack,
Was a' we had to gie or tak',
An' we could be as blythe in fact,
Wi' siccan fare, when gather'd there,
As they whase share o' goud an' gear,
Could match a duke's or earl's, man.
O' aught auld canty carles, man,
Whase rule was aye nae room to gie,
To ony needless quarrels, man;
Guid yill, plain snuff an social crack,
Was a' we had to gie or tak',
An' we could be as blythe in fact,
Wi' siccan fare, when gather'd there,
As they whase share o' goud an' gear,
Could match a duke's or earl's, man.
The sneeshin' mill, the cap gaed round,
The joke, the crack an' a', man,
'Bout markets, trade and daily news,
To wear the time awa', man;
Ye never saw a blither set,
O' queer auld-fashion'd bodies met,
For fient a grain o' pride nor pet,
Nor eating care gat footing there,
But freendship rare, aye found sincere,
An' hearts without a flaw, man.
The joke, the crack an' a', man,
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To wear the time awa', man;
Ye never saw a blither set,
O' queer auld-fashion'd bodies met,
For fient a grain o' pride nor pet,
Nor eating care gat footing there,
But freendship rare, aye found sincere,
An' hearts without a flaw, man.
To cringing courtiers, kings may blaw,
How rich they are an' great, man,
But kings could match na us at a',
Wi' a' their regal state, man,
For Mirran's swats, sae brisk an' fell,
An' Turner's snuff, sae sharp an' snell,
Made ilk ane quite forget himsel',
Made young the auld, inflamed the cauld,
And fired the saul wi' projects bauld,
That daur'd the power o' fate, man.
How rich they are an' great, man,
But kings could match na us at a',
Wi' a' their regal state, man,
For Mirran's swats, sae brisk an' fell,
An' Turner's snuff, sae sharp an' snell,
Made ilk ane quite forget himsel',
Made young the auld, inflamed the cauld,
And fired the saul wi' projects bauld,
That daur'd the power o' fate, man.
But what are a' sic mighty schemes,
When ance the spell is broke, man?
A set o' maut-inspired whims,
That end in perfect smoke, man.
An' what like some disaster keen,
Can chase the glamour frae our een,
An' bring us to oursel's again?—
As was the fate o' my auld pate,
When that night late, I took the gate,
As crouse as ony cock, man.
When ance the spell is broke, man?
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That end in perfect smoke, man.
An' what like some disaster keen,
Can chase the glamour frae our een,
An' bring us to oursel's again?—
As was the fate o' my auld pate,
When that night late, I took the gate,
As crouse as ony cock, man.
For sad misluck! without my hat,
I doiting cam' awa', man,
An' when I down the Drygate cam',
The win' began to blaw man,
When I cam' to the Drygate brig,
The win' blew aff my guid brown wig,
That whirled like ony whirligig,
As up it flew, out o' my view,
While I stood glowrin', waefu' blue,
Wi' wide extended jaw, man.
I doiting cam' awa', man,
An' when I down the Drygate cam',
The win' began to blaw man,
When I cam' to the Drygate brig,
The win' blew aff my guid brown wig,
That whirled like ony whirligig,
As up it flew, out o' my view,
While I stood glowrin', waefu' blue,
Wi' wide extended jaw, man.
When I began to grape for't syne,
Thrang poutrin' wi' my staff, man,
I coupet owre a meikle stane,
An' skail'd my pickle snuff, man;
My staff out o' my hand did jump,
An' hit my snout a dreadfu' thump,
Whilk raised a most confounded lump,
But whar it flew, I never knew,
Yet sair I rue this mark, sae blue,
It leuks sae fleesome waff, man.
Thrang poutrin' wi' my staff, man,
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An' skail'd my pickle snuff, man;
My staff out o' my hand did jump,
An' hit my snout a dreadfu' thump,
Whilk raised a most confounded lump,
But whar it flew, I never knew,
Yet sair I rue this mark, sae blue,
It leuks sae fleesome waff, man.
O had you seen my waefu' plight,
Your mirth had been but sma', man,
An' yet, a qucerer antic sight,
I trow ye never saw, man.
I've lived thir fyfty years an' mair,
But solemnly I here declare,
I ne'er before met loss sae sair;
My wig flew aff, I tint my staff,
I skail'd my snuff, I peel'd my loof,
An' brak' my snout an' a', man.
Your mirth had been but sma', man,
An' yet, a qucerer antic sight,
I trow ye never saw, man.
I've lived thir fyfty years an' mair,
But solemnly I here declare,
I ne'er before met loss sae sair;
My wig flew aff, I tint my staff,
I skail'd my snuff, I peel'd my loof,
An' brak' my snout an' a', man.
Now wad you profit by my loss?—
Then tak' advice frae me, man,
An' ne'er let common sense tak' wing,
On fumes o' barley bree, man;
For drink can heeze a man sae high,
As mak' his head 'maist touch the sky,
But down he tumbles by-an'-by,
Wi' sic a thud, 'mang stanes an' mud,
That aft it's guid, if dirt an bluid,
Be a' he has to dree, man.
Then tak' advice frae me, man,
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On fumes o' barley bree, man;
For drink can heeze a man sae high,
As mak' his head 'maist touch the sky,
But down he tumbles by-an'-by,
Wi' sic a thud, 'mang stanes an' mud,
That aft it's guid, if dirt an bluid,
Be a' he has to dree, man.
| Peter Cornclips | |