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| IN July month, ae bonny morn, | |
| Whan Nature’s rokelay green | |
| Was spread o’er ilka rigg o’ corn, | |
| To charm our roving een; | |
| Glouring about I saw a quean, | 5 |
| The fairest ’neath the lift; | |
| Her een ware o’ the siller sheen, | |
| Her skin like snawy drift, | |
| Sae white that day. | |
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| Quod she, ‘I ferly unco sair, | 10 |
| That ye sud musand gae, | |
| Ye wha hae sung o’ Hallow-fair, | |
| Her winter’s pranks and play: | |
| Whan on Leith-Sands the racers rare, | |
| Wi’ Jocky louns are met, | 15 |
| Their orrow pennies there to ware, | |
| And drown themsel’s in debt | |
| Fu’ deep that day.’ | |
| |
| And wha are ye, my winsome dear, | |
| That takes the gate sae early? | 20 |
| Whare do ye win, gin ane may spier, | |
| For I right meikle ferly, | |
| That sic braw buskit laughing lass | |
| Thir bonny blinks shou’d gi’e, | |
| An’ loup like Hebe o’er the grass, | 25 |
| As wanton and as free, | |
| Frae dule this day. | |
| |
| ‘I dwall amang the caller springs | |
| That weet the Land o’ Cakes, | |
| And aften tune my canty strings | 30 |
| At bridals and late-wakes: | |
| They ca’ me Mirth; I ne’er was kend | |
| To grumble or look sour, | |
| But blyth wad be a lift to lend, | |
| Gif ye wad sey my pow’r | 35 |
| An’ pith this day.’ | |
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| A bargain be’t, and, by my feggs, | |
| Gif ye will be my mate, | |
| Wi’ you I’ll screw the cheery pegs, | |
| Ye shanna find me blate; | 40 |
| We’ll reel an’ ramble thro’ the sands, | |
| And jeer wi’ a’ we meet; | |
| Nor hip the daft and gleesome bands | |
| That fill Edina’s street | |
| Sae thrang this day. | 45 |
| |
| Ere servant maids had wont to rise | |
| To seeth the breakfast kettle, | |
| Ilk dame her brawest ribbons tries, | |
| To put her on her mettle, | |
| Wi’ wiles some silly chiel to trap, | 50 |
| (And troth he’s fain to get her,) | |
| But she’ll craw kniefly in his crap, | |
| Whan wow! he canna flit her | |
| Frae hame that day. | |
| |
| Now, mony a scaw’d and bare-ars’d lown | 55 |
| Rise early to their wark, | |
| Enough to fley a muckle town, | |
| Wi’ dinsome squeel and bark. | |
| ‘Here is the true an’ faithfu’ list | |
| O’ Noblemen and Horses; | 60 |
| Their eild, their weight, their height, their grist, | |
| That rin for Plates or Purses | |
| Fu’ fleet this day.’ | |
| |
| To whisky plooks that brunt for wooks | |
| On town-guard soldiers’ faces, | 65 |
| Their barber bauld his whittle crooks, | |
| An’ scrapes them for the races: | |
| Their stumps erst us’d to filipegs, | |
| Are dight in spaterdashes | |
| Whase barkent hides scarce fend their legs | 70 |
| Frae weet and weary plashes | |
| O’ dirt that day. | |
| |
| ‘Come, hafe a care (the captain cries), | |
| On guns your bagnets thraw; | |
| Now mind your manual exercise, | 75 |
| An’ marsh down raw by raw.’ | |
| And as they march he’ll glowr about, | |
| Tent a’ their cuts and scars: | |
| ’Mang them fell mony a gausy snout | |
| Has gusht in birth-day wars, | 80 |
| Wi’ blude that day. | |
| |
| Her nanesel maun be carefu’ now, | |
| Nor maun she pe misleard, | |
| Sin baxter lads hae seal’d a vow | |
| To skelp and clout the guard; | 85 |
| I’m sure Auld Reikie kens o’ nane | |
| That wou’d be sorry at it, | |
| Tho’ they should dearly pay the kane, | |
| An’ get their tails weel sautit | |
| And sair thir days. | 90 |
| |
| The tinkler billies i’ the Bow | |
| Are now less eidant clinking, | |
| As lang’s their pith or siller dow, | |
| They’re daffin’, and they’re drinking. | |
| Bedown Leith Walk what burrochs reel | 95 |
| Of ilka trade and station, | |
| That gar their wives an’ childer feel | |
| Toom weyms for their libation | |
| O’ drink thir days. | |
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| The browster wives thegither harl | 100 |
| A’ trash that they can fa’ on; | |
| They rake the grounds o’ ilka barrel, | |
| To profit by the lawen: | |
| For weel wat they a skin leal het | |
| For drinking needs nae hire; | 105 |
| At drumbly gear they take nae pet; | |
| Foul water slockens fire | |
| And drouth thir days. | |
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| They say, ill ale has been the deid | |
| O’ mony a beirdly lown; | 110 |
| Then dinna gape like gleds wi’ greed | |
| To sweel hail bickers down: | |
| Gin Lord send mony ane the morn, | |
| They’ll ban fu’ sair the time | |
| That e’er they toutit aff the horn | 115 |
| Which wambles thro’ their weym | |
| Wi’ pain that day. | |
| |
| The Buchan bodies thro’ the beech | |
| Their bunch of Findrums cry, | |
| An’ skirl out baul’, in Norland speech, | 120 |
| ‘Gueed speldings, fa’ will buy.’ | |
| An’, by my saul, they’re nae wrang gear | |
| To gust a stirrah’s mow; | |
| Weel staw’d wi’ them, he’ll never spear | |
| The price of being fu’ | 125 |
| Wi’ drink that day. | |
| |
| Now wyly wights at rowdy powl, | |
| An’ flingin’ o’ the dice, | |
| Here brake the banes o’ mony a soul, | |
| Wi’ fa’s upo’ the ice: | 130 |
| At first the gate seems fair an’ straught, | |
| So they had fairly till her; | |
| But wow! in spite o’ a’ their maught, | |
| They’re rookit o’ their siller | |
| An’ goud that day. | 135 |
| |
| Around whare’er ye fling your een, | |
| The haiks like wind are scourin’; | |
| Some chaises honest folk contain, | |
| An’ some hae mony a whore in; | |
| Wi’ rose and lily, red and white, | 140 |
| They gie themselves sic fit airs, | |
| Like Dian, they will seem perfite; | |
| But it’s nae goud that glitters | |
| Wi’ them thir days. | |
| |
| The lyon here, wi’ open paw, | 145 |
| May cleek in mony hunder, | |
| Wha geck at Scotland and her law, | |
| His wyly talons under; | |
| For ken, tho’ Jamie’s laws are auld, | |
| (Thanks to the wise recorder), | 150 |
| His lyon yet roars loud and bauld, | |
| To had the Whigs in order | |
| Sae prime this day. | |
| |
| To town-guard drum of clangor clear, | |
| Baith men and steeds are raingit; | 155 |
| Some liveries red or yellow wear, | |
| And some are tartan spraingit: | |
| And now the red, the blue e’en-now | |
| Bids fairest for the market; | |
| But, ere the sport be done, I trow | 160 |
| Their skins are gayly yarkit | |
| And peel’d thir days. | |
| |
| Siclike in Robinhood debates, | |
| Whan twa chiels hae a pingle; | |
| E’en-now some couli gets his aits, | 165 |
| An’ dirt wi’ words they mingle, | |
| Till up loups he, wi’ diction fu’, | |
| There’s lang and dreech contesting; | |
| For now they’re near the point in view; | |
| Now ten miles frae the question | 170 |
| In hand that night. | |
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| The races o’er, they hale the dools, | |
| Wi’ drink o’ a’ kin-kind; | |
| Great feck gae hirpling hame like fools, | |
| The cripple lead the blind. | 175 |
| May ne’er the canker o’ the drink | |
| E’er make our spirits thrawart, | |
| ’Case we git wharewitha’ to wink | |
| Wi’ een as blue’s a blawart | |
| Wi’ straiks thir days! | 180 |
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