| |
| AULD Reekie, mourn in sable hue, | |
| Let forth o’ tears dreep like May-dew: | |
| To braw tippeny bid adieu, | |
| Which we wi’ greed | |
| Bended as fast as she could brew, | 5 |
| But, ah! she’s dead. | |
| |
| To tell the truth now, Maggie dang, | |
| O’ customers she had a bang; | |
| For lairds and souters a’ did gang | |
| To drink bedeen; | 10 |
| The barn and yard was aft sae thrang, | |
| We took the green; | |
| |
| And there by dizzens we lay down; | |
| Syne sweetly ca’d the healths aroun’, | |
| To bonny lasses, black or brown, | 15 |
| As we lo’ed best: | |
| In bumpers we dull cares did drown, | |
| And took our rest. | |
| |
| When in our pouch we fand some clinks, | |
| And took a turn o’er Bruntsfield Links, | 20 |
| Aften in Maggie’s, at high-jinks, | |
| We guzzled scuds, | |
| Till we could scarce, wi’ hale-out drinks, | |
| Cast aff our duds. | |
| |
| We drank and drew, and filled again, | 25 |
| O wow, but we were blythe and fain! | |
| When ony had their count mistane, | |
| O it was nice! | |
| To hear us a’ cry, ‘Pike ye’r bane | |
| And spell ye’r dice.’ | 30 |
| |
| Fu’ close we used to drink and rant | |
| Until we did baith glower and guant, | |
| … and yesk, and maunt, | |
| Right swash I trow; | |
| Then of auld stories we did cant | 35 |
| When we were fou. | |
| |
| Whan we were wearied at the gowff, | |
| Then Maggie Johnston’s was our howff; | |
| Now a’ our gamesters may sit dowff, | |
| Wi’ hearts like lead; | 40 |
| Death wi’ his rung rax’d her a yowff, | |
| And sae she’s dead. | |
| |
| Maun we be forced thy skill to tine, | |
| For which we will right sair rapine? | |
| Or hast thou left to bairns o’ thine | 45 |
| The pawky knack | |
| O’ brewing ale a’maist like wine, | |
| That gar’d us crack. | |
| |
| Sae brawly did a pease-scone toast | |
| Biz i’ the queff, and fley and frost: | 50 |
| There we got fou wi’ little cost, | |
| And meikle speed; | |
| Now, wae worth Death! our sport’s a’ lost, | |
| Since Maggie’s dead. | |
| |
| Ae summer nicht I was sae fou, | 55 |
| Amang the rigs I gaed to spue, | |
| Syne down on a green bawk, I trow, | |
| I took a nap, | |
| And soucht a’ night balillilow, | |
| As sound’s a tap. | 60 |
| |
| And when the dawn begoud to glow, | |
| I hirsled up my dizzy pow, | |
| Frae ’mang the corn, like wirricow, | |
| Wi’ banes sae sair, | |
| And kenn’d nae mair than if a ewe | 65 |
| How I cam’ there. | |
| |
| Some said it was the pith o’ broom | |
| That she stow’d in her masking-loom, | |
| Which in our heads raised sic a foum; | |
| Or some wild seed, | 70 |
| Which aft the chappin-stoup did toom, | |
| But filled our head. | |
| |
| But now since it’s sae that we must | |
| Not in the best ale put our trust, | |
| But whan we’re auld return to dust, | 75 |
| Without remead, | |
| Why should we tak’ it in disgust | |
| That Maggie’s dead? | |
| |
| O’ warldly comforts she was rife, | |
| And lived a lang and hearty life, | 80 |
| Right free o’ care, or toil, or strife, | |
| Till she was stale, | |
| And kenn’d to be a canny wife, | |
| At brewing ale. | |
| |
| Then fareweel, Maggie, douce and fell, | 85 |
| O’ brewers a’ thou boor the bell: | |
| Let a’ thy gossips yelp and yell, | |
| And, without feid, | |
| Guess whether ye’re in heaven or hell. | |
| They’re sure ye’re dead. | 90 |
| |
