Anster Fair, and Other Poems By William Tennant. With A Prefatory Memoir of the Author and his Writings |
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ON THE SAME—(Scotice.) |
 | Anster Fair, and Other Poems |  |
ON THE SAME—(Scotice.)
Here lies ane wight, ca'd David Barclay,Weel sepulcher'd amang his hard clay;
Sma' man he was, whan he did flourish—
He was but beadle o' this parish,
And mendit soles, and chimlas soopit,
And blew mouse-wabs frae aff the pupit;
But now, when cramm'd in this wee partie,
He's just as great as Bonaparte!
Nae difference, save that David here
At hame sleeps 'mang his kindred dear,
Wi' ilka star, that kent him livin',
Blinkin' upon him blythe frae heaven:
Whereas the Emperor rots afar
At the warld's end, 'neath Hydra's star,
'Mang foreign worms that keen devour him,
And the cauld south-pole skytin' owre him.
This Barclay was a canty chappie,
Skull-handlin' made him nae less happy:
'Twas but his trade was melancholy,
His spirit aye was blythe and jolly.
King George the Third that ruled this land,
Wi' a braw sceptre in his hand,
And George's ilka son and daughter,
Ne'er took sic hearty gaups o' laughter.
I meikle doubt if a' the thrang
O' kings that in braid Europe rang,
Frae that black-starr'd year achty-nine,
E'en till the day I write this line,
Enjoy'd their lives wi' sic ane gust,
As David wha sleeps here in dust;
Sae, to be merry in this widdle,
Ilk station serves—heigh, laigh, and middle:
Its a' ae woo—king, lord, or beadle!
And let a man be mean or glorious,
Owre armies, or auld shoon, victorious,
Wield swords on fields, or awls on stools,
A' dree alike Death's dreary dools,
And land at length amang the mools!
| Anster Fair, and Other Poems | |