Robert Fergusson
The Daft Days
Now mirk December’s dowie face
Glowrs owr the rigs wi’ sour grimace,
While, thro’ his minimum of space,
The bleer-eyed sun,
Wi’ blinkin’ light and steeling pace,
His race doth run.
From naked groves nae birdie sings;
To shepherd’s pipe nae hillock rings;
The breeze nae od’rous flavour brings
From Borean cave;
And dwyning Nature droops her wings,
Wi’ visage grave.
Mankind but scanty pleasure glean
Frae snawy hill or barren plain,
Whan Winter,’midst his nipping train,
Wi’ frozen spear,
Sends drift owr a’ his bleak domain,
And guides the weir.
Auld Reikiel thou’rt the canty hole,
A bield for mony a caldrife soul,
What snugly at thine ingle loll,
Baith warm and couth,
While round they gar the bicker roll
To weet their mouth.
When merry Yule Day comes, I trow,
You’ll scantlins find a hungry mou;
Sma’ are our cares, our stamacks fou
O’ gusty gear
And kickshaws, strangers to our view
Sin’ fairn-year.
Ye browster wives, now busk ye bra,
And fling your sorrows far awa’;
Then come and gie’s the tither blaw
O’ reaming ale,
Mair precious than the Well of Spa,
Our hearts to heal.
Then, though at odds wi’ a’ the warl’,
Amang oursells we’ll never quarrel;
Though Discord gie a cankered snarl
To spoil our glee,
As lang’s there’s pith into the barrel
We’ll drink and ‘gree.
Fiddlers, your pins in temper fix,
And roset weel your fiddlesticks;
But banish vile Italian tricks
From out your quorum,
Nor fortes wi’ pianos mix—
Gie’s ‘Tullochgorum’!
For naught can cheer the heart sae weel
As can a canty Highland reel;
It even vivifies the heel
To skip and dance:
Lifeless is he wha canna feel
Its influence.
Let mirth abound; let social cheer
Invest the dawning of the year;
Let blithesome innocence appear,
To crown our joy;
Nor envy, wi’ sarcastic sneer,
Our bliss destroy.
And thou, great god of aqua vitae!
Wha sways the empire of this city,—
When fou we’re sometimes caperneity,—
Be thou prepared
To hedge us frae that black banditti,
The City Guard.