| |
| HEAR, Land o’ Cakes, and brither Scots, | |
| Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat’s;— | |
| If there’s a hole in a’ your coats, | |
| I rede you tent it: | |
| A chield’s amang you takin notes, | 5 |
| And, faith, he’ll prent it: | |
| |
| If in your bounds ye chance to light | |
| Upon a fine, fat fodgel wight, | |
| O’ stature short, but genius bright, | |
| That’s he, mark weel; | 10 |
| And wow! he has an unco sleight | |
| O’ cauk and keel. | |
| |
| By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin, | |
| Or kirk deserted by its riggin, | |
| It’s ten to ane ye’ll find him snug in | 15 |
| Some eldritch part, | |
| Wi’ deils, they say, L—d save’s! colleaguin | |
| At some black art. | |
| |
| Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha’ or chaumer, | |
| Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamour, | 20 |
| And you, deep-read in hell’s black grammar, | |
| Warlocks and witches, | |
| Ye’ll quake at his conjuring hammer, | |
| Ye midnight bitches. | |
| |
| It’s tauld he was a sodger bred, | 25 |
| And ane wad rather fa’n than fled; | |
| But now he’s quat the spurtle-blade, | |
| And dog-skin wallet, | |
| And taen the—Antiquarian trade, | |
| I think they call it. | 30 |
| |
| He has a fouth o’ auld nick-nackets: | |
| Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets, | |
| Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, | |
| A towmont gude; | |
| And parritch-pats and auld saut-backets, | 35 |
| Before the flood. | |
| |
| Of Eve’s first fire he has a cinder; | |
| Auld Tubalcain’s fire-shool and fender; | |
| That which distinguished the gender | |
| O’ Balaam’s ass: | 40 |
| A broomstick o’ the witch of Endor, | |
| Weel shod wi’ brass. | |
| |
| Forbye, he’ll shape you aff fu’ gleg | |
| The cut of Adam’s philibeg; | |
| The knife that nickit Abel’s craig | 45 |
| He’ll prove you fully, | |
| It was a faulding jocteleg, | |
| Or lang-kail gullie. | |
| |
| But wad ye see him in his glee, | |
| For meikle glee and fun has he, | 50 |
| Then set him down, and twa or three | |
| Gude fellows wi’ him: | |
| And port, O port! shine thou a wee, | |
| And THEN ye’ll see him! | |
| |
| Now, by the Pow’rs o’ verse and prose! | 55 |
| Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose!— | |
| Whae’er o’ thee shall ill suppose, | |
| They sair misca’ thee; | |
| I’d take the rascal by the nose, | |
| Wad say, “Shame fa’ thee!” | 60 |
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