 | The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson |  |
108
NICHOL THE NEWSMONGER.
Come, Nichol, and gi'e us thy cracks,
I seed te gang down to the smiddy;
I've fodder'd the naigs and the nowt,
And wanted to see thee 'at did e.
Ay, Andrew lad! draw in a stuil,
And gi'e us a shek o' thy daddle;
I got aw the news far and nar,
Sae set off as fast's e could waddle.
I seed te gang down to the smiddy;
I've fodder'd the naigs and the nowt,
And wanted to see thee 'at did e.
Ay, Andrew lad! draw in a stuil,
And gi'e us a shek o' thy daddle;
I got aw the news far and nar,
Sae set off as fast's e could waddle.
In France they've but sworrowfu' teymes,
For Bonnyprat's nit as he sud be;
America's nobbet sae sae;
And England nit quite as she mud be:
Sad wark there's amang blacks and wheytes,
Sec tellin plain teales to their feaces,
Wi' murders, and wars, and aw that,
But, hod—I forget where the pleace is.
For Bonnyprat's nit as he sud be;
America's nobbet sae sae;
And England nit quite as she mud be:
Sad wark there's amang blacks and wheytes,
Sec tellin plain teales to their feaces,
Wi' murders, and wars, and aw that,
But, hod—I forget where the pleace is.
110
Our parson he gat drunk as muck,
Then ledder'd aw t' lads roun about him;
They said he was nobbet hawf reet,
And fwok mud as weel be widout him:
The yell's to be fourpence a whart—
Odswinge, lad, there will be rare drinkin!
Billy Pitt's mad as onie March hare,
And niver was reet fwok are thinkin.
Then ledder'd aw t' lads roun about him;
They said he was nobbet hawf reet,
And fwok mud as weel be widout him:
The yell's to be fourpence a whart—
Odswinge, lad, there will be rare drinkin!
Billy Pitt's mad as onie March hare,
And niver was reet fwok are thinkin.
A weddin we'll hev or it's lang,
Wi' Bet Brag and lal Tommy Tagwally;
Jack Bunton's for off to the sea—
It'll e'en be the deeth of our Sally;
The clogger has bowt a new wig;
Dawston singers come here agean Sunday;
Lord Nelson's ta'en three Spanish fleets;
And the dancin schuil opens on Monday.
Wi' Bet Brag and lal Tommy Tagwally;
Jack Bunton's for off to the sea—
It'll e'en be the deeth of our Sally;
The clogger has bowt a new wig;
Dawston singers come here agean Sunday;
Lord Nelson's ta'en three Spanish fleets;
And the dancin schuil opens on Monday.
Carel badgers are monstrous sad fwok,
The silly peer de'ils how they wring up!
Lal bairns, ha'e got pox frae the kye,
And fact'ries, leyke mushrooms, they spring up:
If they sud keep their feet for a wheyle,
And goverment nobbet pruive civil,
They'll build up as hee as the muin,
For Carel's a match for the deevil.
The silly peer de'ils how they wring up!
Lal bairns, ha'e got pox frae the kye,
And fact'ries, leyke mushrooms, they spring up:
If they sud keep their feet for a wheyle,
And goverment nobbet pruive civil,
They'll build up as hee as the muin,
For Carel's a match for the deevil.
111
The king's meade a bit of a speech,
And gentle fwok say it's a topper;
An alderman deet tudder neet,
Efter eatin a turkey to supper;
Our squire's to be parliment man,
Mess, lad, but he'll keep them aw busy!
Whee thinks te's come heame i' the cwoach,
Frae Lunnon, but grater-feac'd Lizzy.
And gentle fwok say it's a topper;
An alderman deet tudder neet,
Efter eatin a turkey to supper;
Our squire's to be parliment man,
Mess, lad, but he'll keep them aw busy!
Whee thinks te's come heame i' the cwoach,
Frae Lunnon, but grater-feac'd Lizzy.
The cock-feghts are ninth o' neist month,
I've twee, nit aw England can bang them;
In Ireland they're aw up in arms,
It's whop'd there's nee Frenchmen amang them;
A boggle's been seen wi' twee heeds,
Lord help us! ayont Wully' carras,
Wi' girt saucer e'en, and a tail—
They dui say 'twas auld Jobby Barras.
I've twee, nit aw England can bang them;
In Ireland they're aw up in arms,
It's whop'd there's nee Frenchmen amang them;
A boggle's been seen wi' twee heeds,
Lord help us! ayont Wully' carras,
Wi' girt saucer e'en, and a tail—
They dui say 'twas auld Jobby Barras.
The muin was at full this neet week;
The weather is turn'd monstrous daggy;
I' th' loft, just at seeben last neet,
Lal Stephen sweethearted lang Aggy:
There'll be bonny wark bye and bye,
The truth'll be out there's nae fear on't,
But I niver say nought, nay nit I,
For fear hawf the parish sud hear on't.
The weather is turn'd monstrous daggy;
I' th' loft, just at seeben last neet,
Lal Stephen sweethearted lang Aggy:
There'll be bonny wark bye and bye,
The truth'll be out there's nae fear on't,
But I niver say nought, nay nit I,
For fear hawf the parish sud hear on't.
112
Our Tib at the cwose-house hes been,
She tells us they're aw monstrous murry;
At Carel the brig's tummel'd down,
And they tek the fwok owre in a whurry;
I carried our whye to the bull;
They've ta'en seeben spies up at Dover;
My fadder compleens of his hip,
And the Gran Turk hes enter'd Hanover.
She tells us they're aw monstrous murry;
At Carel the brig's tummel'd down,
And they tek the fwok owre in a whurry;
I carried our whye to the bull;
They've ta'en seeben spies up at Dover;
My fadder compleens of his hip,
And the Gran Turk hes enter'd Hanover.
Daft Peg's got hersel, man, wi' bairn,
And silly pilgarlic's the fadder;
Lal Sim's geane and swapp'd the black cowt,
And cwoley has wurriet the wedder;
My mudder has got frostet heels,
And peace is the talk o' the nation,
For paper says varra neist week
There's to be a grand humiliation.
And silly pilgarlic's the fadder;
Lal Sim's geane and swapp'd the black cowt,
And cwoley has wurriet the wedder;
My mudder has got frostet heels,
And peace is the talk o' the nation,
For paper says varra neist week
There's to be a grand humiliation.
Aunt Meable has lost her best sark,
And Cleutie is bleam'd varra mickle;
Nought's seafe out o' duirs now-a-days,
Frae a millstone, e'en down to a sickle:
The clock it streykes eight, I mun heame,
Or I's git a deuce of a fratchin;
When neist we've a few hours to spare,
We'll fin out what mischief's a hatchin.
And Cleutie is bleam'd varra mickle;
Nought's seafe out o' duirs now-a-days,
Frae a millstone, e'en down to a sickle:
The clock it streykes eight, I mun heame,
Or I's git a deuce of a fratchin;
When neist we've a few hours to spare,
We'll fin out what mischief's a hatchin.
July 5, 1802.
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