 | The Poems of Robert Fergusson |  |
To ANDREW GRAY.
Nae langer bygane, than the streen,
Your couthy letter met my ein;
I lang to wag a cutty speen
On Amond water;
And claw the lips o' truncher tree'n
And tak a clatter.
Your couthy letter met my ein;
I lang to wag a cutty speen
On Amond water;
And claw the lips o' truncher tree'n
And tak a clatter.
“Frae Whistleha” your muse doth cry;
Whare'er ye win I carena by;
Ye're no the laird o' Whistledry,
As lang's ye can,
Wi' routh o' reekin kail supply
The inward man.
Whare'er ye win I carena by;
Ye're no the laird o' Whistledry,
As lang's ye can,
Wi' routh o' reekin kail supply
The inward man.
153
You'll trow me, Billy, kail's fu' geed
To synd an' peerify the bleid;
'Twill rin like ony scarlet reid,
While patt ye put on,
Wi' wethers that round Amond feed,
The primest mutton.
To synd an' peerify the bleid;
'Twill rin like ony scarlet reid,
While patt ye put on,
Wi' wethers that round Amond feed,
The primest mutton.
Ane wad maist think ye'd been at Scoon,
Whan kings wure there the Scottish crown;
A soupler or mair fletching loun
Ne'er hap'd on hurdies,
Whan courtier's tongues war' there in tune,
For oily wordies.
Whan kings wure there the Scottish crown;
A soupler or mair fletching loun
Ne'er hap'd on hurdies,
Whan courtier's tongues war' there in tune,
For oily wordies.
Can you nae ither theme divine
To blaw upon, but my engyne?
At nature keek, she's unco fine
Redd up, and braw;
And can gie scouth to muses nine
At Whistle-ha.
To blaw upon, but my engyne?
At nature keek, she's unco fine
Redd up, and braw;
And can gie scouth to muses nine
At Whistle-ha.
Her road awhile is rough an' round,
An' few poetic gowans found;
The stey braes o' the muses ground
We scarce can crawl up;
But on the tap we're light as wind
To scour an' gallop.
An' few poetic gowans found;
The stey braes o' the muses ground
We scarce can crawl up;
But on the tap we're light as wind
To scour an' gallop.
Whan first ye seyd to mak a riddle
You'd hae an unco fike an' piddle,
An ablins brak aff i' the middle,
Like Samy Butler:
'Tis ein sae wi' Apollo's fiddle,
Before we wit lear.
You'd hae an unco fike an' piddle,
An ablins brak aff i' the middle,
Like Samy Butler:
'Tis ein sae wi' Apollo's fiddle,
Before we wit lear.
154
Then flegna at this weary practice,
That's tane to get this wyly nack nice;
The eidant muse begins to crack wise,
An' ne'er cry dule:
It's idleseat, that banefu' black vice,
That gars her cool.
That's tane to get this wyly nack nice;
The eidant muse begins to crack wise,
An' ne'er cry dule:
It's idleseat, that banefu' black vice,
That gars her cool.
Andrew, at Whistleha, your ein
May lippen for me very sien:
For barley scones my grinders grien.
They're special eating;
Wi' bizzin cogs that ream abien,
Our thrapple weeting.
May lippen for me very sien:
For barley scones my grinders grien.
They're special eating;
Wi' bizzin cogs that ream abien,
Our thrapple weeting.
Till than may you had hale and fier,
That we to Maltman's browst may steer,
And ilka care and ilka fear
To dogdrive ding;
While cheek for chow we laugh and jeer;
And crack and sing.
That we to Maltman's browst may steer,
And ilka care and ilka fear
To dogdrive ding;
While cheek for chow we laugh and jeer;
And crack and sing.
R. Fergusson. Edinburgh, June 23, 1773.
| The Poems of Robert Fergusson | |