Stray Leaves from the Portfolios of Alisander the Seer, Andrew Whaup, and Humphrey Henkeckle ::

Come, fye, let us a' to the guzzle,
For there will be munching there,
For Peel, that political puzzle,
Is come to partak' o' our fare;
And there will be cod-heads in plenty,
And calves'-heads and bullocks'-heads too,
Wi' store o' stuff'd geese (nae great dainty,)
And rowth o' rich white-livered broo.

And there will be gulls and fat gudgeons,
And gammon, and flummery, and froth!
And likewise to stuff our curmudgeons,
Some rich yellow Carlton broth;
And there will be guttling most glorious,
And guzzling till ance we're a' fou,
Wi' hip-hip-hurraing uproarious,
And damning the vile Whiggish crew.

And there will be worthy Lord Harry,
Whase person will grace our board-head,
As plump and as round as a berry,
Wi' intellect brilliant as—lead;

And there will be weathercock Sandford,
The knight wot spouts gammon and Greek;
Vile freedom—he once made a stand for't,
But now he's our ain Jerry Sneak.

And there will be Doctor Statistics,
Still fash'd wi' the ghaist o' Nanse Baird,
Wi' twenty fat clerical mystics,
Whase creeds by state tactics are squar'd.
And there will be Ex-Deacon B---y,
Wi' his most vociferous lungs,
To play us the part o' Grimaldi,
Wi' sleek, plural-paunch'd Duncan Rungs.

And there will be jolly John Geordie,
The king o' the Calico Nobs,
Wi' Robin, that proud cotton lordie,
Sae fond o' nice pickings and jobs.
An' tere will pe Norman M`Tartan,
Wha in her nainsel' pe a host,
Wi' face red an' round as a partan,
To greet us wi' some yeuky toast.

And there will be braid-backit Steenie,
Whase bouk made the Glaizert recede,
Ae night, when pursuing some queanie,
He plumpit in, heels over head;
(The holms and the haughs were o'erflooded,
The hay ricks were carried awa',
The beasts to the hills quickly scudded,
Or else they'd been drown'd, ane an' a'.)

And there will be glib-gabbit Gibson,
Sae famed for his telling o' truth,
Wham wicked Dissenters crack squibs on,
Because his kirk's crammed to the mouth.
And there will be Jordanhill Strata,
To gie us a nice dainty dish,
Composed o' the fossil potatoe,
And ante-diluvian fish.

And there the great Pythagorean,
Half-dosed wi' his drinking and sleep,
Wha swears that each nasty plebeian
Was made, not to walk, but to creep.
And there—the black Knights o' Gartsherrie,
Wha ne'er did vulgarity ken,
But soon o' dung-wheeling grew weary,
To mak' themselves grit wi' great men.

And there will be Saintly Killermont,
Wha, though he'd exchange Saint for Sir,
Wad yet tramp ten miles to hear sarmont
Frae mighty Mike Crotty of Birr.
And there—our wee Piggie o' Knowledge,
Wi' face like a winter day's sun,
Wha aft to the chaps in the College
Is subject o' frolic and fun.

And there will he great Dr Belfast,
Our church's chief Cook, and her hope,
Who'd fry every Papist in h---ll fast,
And give each Dissenter a rope.

Och! troth, he's the broth of a bruiser,
Can smash Dr Ritchie to pie;
Some people say Cooke is the loser,
But, blazes! that's all in my eye.

And there will be wee Doctor Corky,
Wi' blinker half open, half shut,
As pompous and proud as a turkey,
Displaying his medical strut.
And there—our braw gawcey Reporter,
Wha ne'er in his lifetime got fou,
Save ance—when he dined on a quarter
O' coal-hunting Craig's fossil cow.

And there will pe bare-hippet gillies,
Frae Morven, frae Mull, and Tiree,
As rampant and rough as young fillies,
Shust cum ta great wonder to see.
An' hoogh! how she'll grunt ‘Gaelic agud,’
An' gie her a sneesh o' her mill,
Tan swore if py Whigs she's attackit,
Her tirk pe mak' very goot kill.

And there our rough Tatterdemallions,
Wha signed the Peel-garlic address,
Wha'll nicher and squeal like ramp stallions,
For sake o' a fuddle and mess;
For sake o' auld bauchels and hushions,
They'll kiss our great Idol behind—
Wear chains, or drink oil, like the Russians,
And roar they are free as the wind.

And there will be lang frothy speeches,
Wi' nonsense and humbug replete,
In praise o' State locusts and leeches,
And ilka State-clerical cheat.
And there we'll drink death and destruction
To Whigs, and their damnable cause,
Success to exclusion, restriction,
State churches, and intricate laws.

Then, fye, let us a' to the guttle,
For there will be gorging there,
For the son o' the jenny and shuttle
Will sit on the right o' the chair.
And there will be hundreds o' asses,
Wha loudly his praises will bray;
Then wi' smashing and crashing o' glasses,
We'll end wi' a right bloody fray.

University of Virginia Library

‘COME, FYE, LET US A' TO THE GUZZLE.’

A SONG.