Classic and Contemporary Poetry
AULD REIKIE, by ROBERT FERGUSSON Poem Explanation Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Auld reikie, wale o' ilka toun Last Line: But gallop'd to edina's shore. Alternate Author Name(s): Ferguson, Robert Subject(s): Courtesans; Day; Night; Summer; Bedtime | ||||||||
Auld Reikie, wale o' ilka toun That Scotland kens beneath the moon; Whare couthy chiels at e'ening meet Their bizzing craigs and mous to weet; And blythly gar auld Care gae by Wi blinkit and wi bleering eye: Owr lang frae thee the Muse has been Sae frisky on the simmer's green, Whan flowers and gowans wont to glent In bonny blinks upo' the bent; But now the leaves a yellow dye, Peel'd frae the branches, quickly fly; And now frae nouther bush nor brier The spreckl'd mavis greets your ear; Nor bonny blackbird skims and roves To seek his love in yonder groves. Then, Reikie, welcome! Thou canst charm Unfleggit by the year's alarm; Not Boreas, that sae snelly blows, Dare here pap in his angry nose: Thanks to our dads, whase biggin stands A shelter to surrounding lands. Now morn, with bonny purpie-smiles, Kisses the air-cock o' St Giles; Rakin their een, the servant lasses Early begin their lies and clashes; Ilk tells her friend o' saddest distress, That still she brooks frae scouling mistress; And wi her joe in turnpike stair She'd rather snuff the stinking air, As be subjected to her tongue, When justly censur'd in the wrong. On stair wi tub, or pat in hand, The barefoot housemaids loo to stand, That antrin fock may ken how snell Auld Reikie will at morning smell: Then, with an inundation big as The burn that 'neath the Nore Loch Brig is, They kindly shower Edina's roses, To quicken and regale our noses. Now some for this, wi satire's leesh, Hae gien auld Edinburgh a creesh: But without souring nocht is sweet; The morning smells that hail our street Prepare, and gently lead the way To simmer canty, braw and gay; Edina's sons mair eithly share Her spices and her dainties rare, Than he that's never yet been call'd Aff frae his plaidie or his fauld. Now stairhead critics, senseless fools, Censure their aim, and pride their rules, In Luckenbooths, wi glowring eye, Their neighbours' sma'est faults descry: If only loun should dander there, Of aukward gate and foreign air, They trace his steps, till they can tell His pedigree as weel's himsel. Whan Phoebus blinks wi warmer ray, And schools at noonday get the play, Then bus'ness, weighty bus'ness comes; The trader glowrs, he doubts, he hums; The lawyers eke to Cross repair, Their wigs to shaw, and toss an air; While busy agent closely plies, And a' his kittle cases tries. Now Night, that's cunzied chief for fun, Is wi her usual rites begun; Thro' ilka gate the torches blaze, And globes send out their blinking rays. The useful cadie plies in street, To bide the profits o' his feet; For by thir lads Auld Reikie's fock Ken but a sample o' the stock O' thieves, that nightly wad oppress, And make baith goods and gear the less. Near him the lazy chairman stands, And wats na how to turn his hands, Till some daft birky, ranting fu, Has matters somewhere else to do; The chairman willing gies his light To deeds o' darkness and o' night: It's never sax pence for a lift That gars thir lads wi fu'ness rift; For they wi better gear are paid, And whores and culls support their trade. Near some lamp-post, wi dowy face, Wi heavy een and sour grimace, Stands she that beauty lang had kend, Whoredom her trade, and vice her end. But see wharenow she wuns her breid By that which Nature ne'er decreed, And sings sad music to the lugs, 'Mang bourachs o' damn'd whores and rogues. Whane'er we reputation loss, Fair chastity's transparent gloss, Redemption seenil kens the name, But a's black misery and shame. Frae joyous tavern, reeling drunk, Wi fiery phizz and een half sunk, Behad the bruiser, fae to a' That in the reek o' gardies fa: Close by his side, a feckless race O' macaronies shew their face, And think they're free frae skaith or harm, While pith befriends their leader's arm: Yet fearful aften o' their maught, They quat the glory o' the faught To this same warrior wha led Thae heroes to bright honour's bed; And aft the hack o' honour shines In bruiser's face wi broken lines: Of them sad tales he tells anon, Whan ramble and whan fighting's done; And, like Hectorian, ne'er impairs The brag and glory o' his sairs. Whan feet in dirty gutters plash, And fock to wale their fitstaps fash, At night the macaroni drunk, In pools or gutters aftimes sunk: Hegh! what a fright he now appears, Whan he his corpse dejected rears! Look at that head, and think if there The pomet slaister'd up his hair! The cheeks observe, where now could shine The scancing glories o' carmine? Ah, legs! in vain the silk-worm there Display'd to view her eident care; For stink, instead of perfumes, grow, And clarty odours fragrant flow. Now some to porter, some to punch, Some to their wife, and some their wench, Retire, while noisy ten-hours' drum Gars a' your trades gae dandring home. Now mony a club, jocose and free, Gie a' to merriment and glee; Wi sang and glass they fley the pow'r O' Care that wad harass the hour: For wine and Bacchus still bear down Our thrawart fortune's wildest frown: It makes you stark, and bauld, and brave, Ev'n whan descending to the grave. Now some, in Pandemonium's shade, Resume the gormandizing trade; Whare eager looks and glancing een Forespeak a heart and stamack keen. Gang on, my lads: it's lang sin syne We kent auld Epicurus' line; Save you, the board wad cease to rise, Bedight wi daintiths to the skies; And salamanders cease to swill The comforts of a burning gill. But chief, O Cape, we crave thy aid, To get our cares and poortith laid: Sincerity, and genius true, Of Knights have ever been the due: Mirth, music, porter deepest dy'd, Are never here to worth deny'd; And health, o' happiness the queen, Blinks bonny, wi her smile serene. Tho' joy maist part Auld Reikie owns, Eftsoons she kens sad sorrow's frowns: What group is yon sae dismal, grim, Wi horrid aspect, cleeding dim? Says Death, "They're mine, a dowy crew, To me they'll quickly pay their last adieu." How come mankind, whan lacking woe, In saulie's face their heart to show, As if they were a clock, to tell That grief in them had rung her bell? Then, what is man? why a' this phrase? Life's spunk decay'd nae mair can blaze. Let sober grief alone declare Our fond anxiety and care: Nor let the undertakers be The only waefu friends we see. Come on, my Muse, and then rehearse The gloomiest theme in a' your verse: In morning, whan ane keeks about, Fu blyth and free frae ail, nae doubt He lippens not to be misled Amang the regions of the dead; But straight a painted corp he sees, Lang streekit 'neath its canopies. Soon, soon will this his mirth controul, And send damnation to his soul; Or when the dead-deal (awful shape!) Makes frighted mankind girn and gape, Reflection then his reason sours, For the neist dead-deal may be ours. Whan Sybil led the Trojan down To haggard Pluto's dreary town, Shapes waur nor thae, I freely ween, Could never meet the soldier's een. If kail sae green, or herbs, delight, Edina's street attracts the sight; Not Covent-garden, clad sae braw, Mair fouth o' herbs can eithly shaw: For mony a yeard is here sair sought, That kail and cabbage may be bought, And healthfu sallad to regale, Whan pamper'd wi a heavy meal. Glowr up the street in simmer morn, The birks sae green, and sweet brier-thorn, Wi spraingit flow'rs that scent the gale, Ca far awa the morning smell, Wi which our ladies flow'r-pats fill'd, And every noxious vapour kill'd. O Nature! canty, blyth and free, Whare is there keeking-glass like thee? Is there on earth that can compare Wi Mary's shape, and Mary's air, Save the empurpl'd speck, that grows In the saft faulds of yonder rose? How bonny seems the virgin breast, Whan by the lilies here caress'd, And leaves the mind in doubt to tell Which maist in sweets and hue excel! Gillespie's snuff should prime the nose Of her that to the market goes, If she wad like to shun the smells That buoy up frae mirkest cells; Whare wames o' paunches' sav'ry scent To nostrils gie great discontent. Now wha in Albion could expect O' cleanliness sic great neglect? Nae Hottentot that daily lairs 'Mang tripe, or ither clarty wares, Hath ever yet conceiv'd, or seen Beyond the Line, sic scenes unclean. On Sunday here, an alter'd scene O' men and manners meets our een: Ane wad maist trou some people chose To change their faces wi their clo'es, And fain wad gar ilk neighbour think They thirst for goodness as for drink; But there's an unco dearth o' grace, That has nae mansion but the face, And never can obtain a part In benmost corner o' the heart. Why should religion make us sad, If good frae virtue's to be had? Na, rather gleefu turn your face; Forsake hypocrisy, grimace; And never have it understood You fleg mankind frae being good. In afternoon, a' brawly buskit, The joes and lasses loo to frisk it: Some tak a great delight to place The modest bon-grace owr the face; Tho' you may see, if so inclin'd, The turning o' the leg behind. Now Comely-Garden, and the Park, Refresh them after forenoon's wark; Newhaven, Leith, or Canon-mills, Supply them in their Sunday's gills, Whare writers aften spend their pence, To stock their heads wi drink and sense. While dand'ring cits delight to stray To Castlehill, or public way, Whare they nae other purpose mean Than that fool cause o' being seen; Let me to Arthur's Seat pursue, Whare bonny pastures meet the view, And mony a wild-lorn scene accrues, Befitting Willie Shakespeare's muse: If Fancy there would join the thrang, The desert rocks and hills amang, To echoes we should lilt and play, And gie to mirth the lee-lang day. Or should some canker'd biting shour The day and a' her sweets deflour, To Holy-rood-house let me stray, And gie to musing a' the day; Lamenting what auld Scotland knew, Bien days for ever frae her view: O Hamilton, for shame! the Muse Would pay to thee her couthy vows, Gin ye wad tent the humble strain, And gie's our dignity again; For O, wae's me! the thistle springs In domicile of ancient kings, Without a patriot to regret Our palace and our ancient state. Blest place! whare debtors daily run, To rid themselves frae jail and dun; Here, tho' sequester'd frae the din That rings Auld Reikie's waas within, Yet they may tread the sunny braes, And brook Apollo's cheery rays; Glowr frae St Anthon's grassy hight, Owr vales in simmer claes bedight, Nor ever hing their head, I ween, Wi jealous fear o' being seen. May I, whanever duns come night, And shake my garret wi their cry, Scour here wi haste, protection get, To screen mysel frae them and debt; To breathe the bliss of open sky, And Simon Fraser's bolts defy. Now gin a loun should hae his claes In thread-bare autumn o' their days, St Mary, brokers' guardian saint, Will satisfy ilk ail and want; For mony a hungry writer there Dives down at night, wi cleeding bare, And quickly rises to the view A gentleman, perfite and new. Ye rich fock, look no wi disdain Upo' this ancient Brokage Lane! For naked poets are supplied With what you to their wants deny'd. Peace to thy shade, thou wale o' men, Drummond! relief to poortith's pain: To thee the greatest bliss we owe, And tribute's tear shall grateful flow: The sick are cur'd, the hungry fed, And dreams of comfort tend their bed: As lang as Forth weets Lothian's shore, As lang's on Fife her billows roar, Sae lang shall ilk whase country's dear, To thy remembrance gie a tear. By thee Auld Reikie thrave, and grew Delightfu to her childer's view: Nae mair shall Glasgow striplings threap Their city's beauty and its shape, While our new city spreads around Her bonny wings on fairy ground. But provosts now that ne'er afford The sma'est dignity to lord, Ne'er care tho' ev'ry scheme gae wild That Drummond's sacred hand has cull'd: The spacious Brig neglected lies, Tho' plagued wi pamphlets, dunn'd wi cries; They heed not tho' destruction come To gulp us in her gaunting womb. O shame! that safety canna claim Protection from a provost's name, But hidden danger lies behind To torture and to fleg the mind; I may as weel bid Arthur's Seat To Berwick-Law make gleg retreat, As think that either will or art Shall get the gate to win their heart; For politics are a' their mark, Bribes latent, and corruption dark: If they can eithly turn the pence, Wi city's good they will dispense; Nor care tho' a' her sons were lair'd Ten fathom i' the auld kirk-yeard. To sing yet meikle does remain, Undecent for a modest strain; And since the poet's daily bread is The favour of the Muse or ladies, He downa like to gie offence To delicacy's bonny sense; Therefore the stews remain unsung, And bawds in silence drop their tongue. Reikie, fareweel! I ne'er could part Wi thee but wi a dowy heart. Aft frae the Fifan coast I've seen Thee tow'ring on thy summit green; So glowr the saints when first is given A fav'rite keek o' glore and heaven: On earth nae mair they bend their een, But quick assume angelic mien; So I on Fife wad glowr no more, But gallop'd to Edina's shore. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BREATH OF NIGHT by RANDALL JARRELL HOODED NIGHT by ROBINSON JEFFERS NIGHT WITHOUT SLEEP by ROBINSON JEFFERS WORKING OUTSIDE AT NIGHT by DENIS JOHNSON POEM TO TAKE BACK THE NIGHT by JUNE JORDAN COOL DARK ODE by DONALD JUSTICE POEM TO BE READ AT 3 A.M by DONALD JUSTICE ROUND ABOUT MIDNIGHT by BOB KAUFMAN BRAID CLAITH by ROBERT FERGUSSON THE DAFT DAYS by ROBERT FERGUSSON A DRINK ECLOGUE: LANDLADY, BRANDY AND WHISKY by ROBERT FERGUSSON |
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