 | The Poems of Robert Fergusson |  |
66
CALLER OYSTERS.
Happy the man who, free from care and strife,
In silken or in leathern purse retains
A splendid shilling. He nor hears with pain
New oysters cry'd, nor sighs for chearful ale.
Phillips.
In silken or in leathern purse retains
A splendid shilling. He nor hears with pain
New oysters cry'd, nor sighs for chearful ale.
Phillips.
Of a' the waters that can hobble
A fishin yole or salmon coble,
And can reward the fishers trouble,
Or south or north,
There's nane sae spacious and sae noble
As Firth o' Forth.
A fishin yole or salmon coble,
And can reward the fishers trouble,
Or south or north,
There's nane sae spacious and sae noble
As Firth o' Forth.
In her the skate and codlin sail,
The eil fou souple wags her tail,
Wi' herrin, fleuk, and mackarel,
And whitens dainty:
Their spindle-shanks the labsters trail,
Wi' partans plenty.
The eil fou souple wags her tail,
Wi' herrin, fleuk, and mackarel,
And whitens dainty:
Their spindle-shanks the labsters trail,
Wi' partans plenty.
Auld Reikie's sons blyth faces wear;
September's merry month is near,
That brings in Neptune's caller chere,
New oysters fresh;
The halesomest and nicest gear
Of fish or flesh.
September's merry month is near,
That brings in Neptune's caller chere,
New oysters fresh;
The halesomest and nicest gear
Of fish or flesh.
O! then we needna gie a plack
For dand'ring mountebank or quack,
Wha o' their drogs sae bauldly crack,
And spred sic notions,
As gar their feckless patient tak
Their stinkin potions.
For dand'ring mountebank or quack,
Wha o' their drogs sae bauldly crack,
And spred sic notions,
As gar their feckless patient tak
Their stinkin potions.
67
Come prie, frail man! for gin thou art sick,
The oyster is a rare cathartic,
As ever doctor patient gart lick
To cure his ails;
Whether you hae the head or heart-ake,
It ay prevails.
The oyster is a rare cathartic,
As ever doctor patient gart lick
To cure his ails;
Whether you hae the head or heart-ake,
It ay prevails.
Ye tiplers, open a' your poses,
Ye wha are faush'd wi' plouky noses,
Fling owr your craig sufficient doses,
You'll thole a hunder,
To fleg awa' your simmer roses,
And naething under.
Ye wha are faush'd wi' plouky noses,
Fling owr your craig sufficient doses,
You'll thole a hunder,
To fleg awa' your simmer roses,
And naething under.
Whan big as burns the gutters rin,
Gin ye hae catcht a droukit skin,
To Luckie Middlemist's loup in,
And sit fu snug
Oe'r oysters and a dram o' gin,
Or haddock lug.
Gin ye hae catcht a droukit skin,
To Luckie Middlemist's loup in,
And sit fu snug
Oe'r oysters and a dram o' gin,
Or haddock lug.
When auld Saunt Giles, at aught o'clock,
Gars merchant lowns their chopies lock,
There we adjourn wi' hearty fock
To birle our bodles,
And get wharewi' to crack our joke,
And clear our noddles.
Gars merchant lowns their chopies lock,
There we adjourn wi' hearty fock
To birle our bodles,
And get wharewi' to crack our joke,
And clear our noddles.
Whan Phœbus did his windocks steek,
How aften at that ingle cheek
Did I my frosty fingers beek,
And taste gude fare?
I trow there was nae hame to seek
Whan steghin there.
How aften at that ingle cheek
Did I my frosty fingers beek,
And taste gude fare?
I trow there was nae hame to seek
Whan steghin there.
68
While glakit fools, o'er rife o' cash,
Pamper their weyms wi' fousom trash,
I think a chiel may gayly pass;
He's no ill boden
That gusts his gabb wi' oyster sauce,
And hen weel soden.
Pamper their weyms wi' fousom trash,
I think a chiel may gayly pass;
He's no ill boden
That gusts his gabb wi' oyster sauce,
And hen weel soden.
At Musselbrough, and eke Newhaven,
The fisher-wives will get top livin,
Whan lads gang out on Sunday's even
To treat their joes,
And tak of fat pandours a prieven,
Or mussel brose:
The fisher-wives will get top livin,
Whan lads gang out on Sunday's even
To treat their joes,
And tak of fat pandours a prieven,
Or mussel brose:
Than sometimes 'ere they flit their doup,
They'll ablins a' their siller coup
For liquor clear frae cutty stoup,
To weet their wizen,
And swallow o'er a dainty soup,
For fear they gizzen.
They'll ablins a' their siller coup
For liquor clear frae cutty stoup,
To weet their wizen,
And swallow o'er a dainty soup,
For fear they gizzen.
A' ye wha canna stand sae sicker,
Whan twice you've toom'd the big ars'd bicker,
Mix caller oysters wi' your liquor,
And I'm your debtor,
If greedy priest or drouthy vicar
Will thole it better.
Whan twice you've toom'd the big ars'd bicker,
Mix caller oysters wi' your liquor,
And I'm your debtor,
If greedy priest or drouthy vicar
Will thole it better.
| The Poems of Robert Fergusson | |