Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. III. The Eighteenth Century: Addison to Blake

Robert Fergusson (1750–1774)

Extract from Caller Water

WHAN father Adie first pat spade in

The bonny yeard of antient Eden

His amry had nae liquor laid in,

To fire his mou’,

Nor did he thole his wife’s upbraidin’

For being fou.

A caller burn o’ siller sheen,

Ran cannily out o’er the green,

And whan our gutcher’s drouth had been

To bide right sair,

He loutit down and drank bedeen

A dainty skair.

His bairns a’ before the flood

Had langer tack o’ flesh and blood,

And on mair pithy shanks they stood

Than Noah’s line,

Wha still hae been a feckless brood

Wi’ drinking wine.

The fuddlin’ Bardies now-a-days

Rin maukin-mad in Bacchus’ praise,

And limp and stoiter thro’ their lays

Anacreontic,

While each his sea of wine displays

As big ’s the Pontic.

My muse will no gang far frae hame,

Or scour a’ airths to hound for fame;

In troth, the jillet ye might blame

For thinking on ’t,

Whan eithly she can find the theme

Of aqua font.

This is the name that doctors use

Their patients’ noddles to confuse;

Wi’ simples clad in terms abstruse,

They labour still,

In kittle words to gar your roose

Their want o’ skill.

But we ’ll hae nae sick clitter-clatter,

And briefly to expound the matter,

It shall be ca’d good Caller Water,

Than whilk, I trow,

Few drogs in doctors’ shops are better

For me or you.

Tho’ joints are stiff as ony rung,

Your pith wi’ pain be fairly dung,

Be you in Caller Water flung

Out o’er the lugs,

’Twill mak you souple, swack and young,

Withouten drugs.

Tho’ cholic or the heart-scad teaze us,

Or ony inward pain should seize us,

It masters a’ sic fell diseases

That would ye spulzie,

And brings them to a canny crisis

Wi’ little tulzie.

Wer’t na for it the bonny lasses

Would glowr nae mair in keeking-glasses,

And soon tine dint o’ a’ the graces

That aft conveen

In gleefu’ looks and bonny faces,

To catch our ein.

The fairest then might die a maid,

And Cupid quit his shooting trade,

For wha thro’ clarty masquerade

Could then discover,

Whether the features under shade

Were worth a lover?