Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

EPISTLES BETWEEN J.S. AND ROBERT FERGUSSON: ANSWER TO J.S.'S EPISTLE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: I trou, my mettl'd louden lathie
Last Line: Rob. Fergusson.
Alternate Author Name(s): Ferguson, Robert
Subject(s): Fortune; Muses; Ramsay, Allan (1686-1758)


I trou, my mettl'd Louden lathie,
Auld farran birky I maun ca thee,
For whan in gude black print I saw thee
Wi souple gab,
I skirl'd fou loud, "Oh wae befa thee!
But thou'rt a daub!"

Awa, ye wylie fleetchin fallow;
The rose shall grow like gowan yallow,
Before I turn sae toom and shallow,
And void of fusion,
As a' your butter'd words to swallow
In vain delusion.

Ye mak my Muse a dautit pet,
But gin she could like Allan's mett,
Or couthie cracks and hamely get
Upon her caritch,
Eithly would I be in your debt
A pint o' parritch.

At times whan she may lowse her pack,
I'll grant that she can find a knack,
To gar auld-warld wordies clack
In hamespun rhyme,
While ilk ane at his billie's back
Keeps gude Scots time.

But she maun e'en be glad to jook,
And play teet-bo frae nook to nook,
Or blush as gin she had the yook
Upon her skin,
Whan Ramsay or whan Pennicuik
Their lilts begin.

At morning air, or late at e'en,
Gin ye sud hap to come and see ane,
Not niggard wife, nor greetin wee ane,
Within my cloyster,
Can challenge you and me frae priein
A caller oyster.

Heh lad! it would be news indeed,
War I to ride to bonny Tweed,
Wha ne'er laid gamon owr a steed
Beyont Lusterrick;
And auld shanks' nag would tire, I dreid,
To pace to Berwick.

You crack weel o' your lasses there,
Their glancin een and bisket bare;
But thof this town be smeekit sair,
I'll wad a farden,
Than ours they're nane mair fat and fair,
Cravin your pardon.

Gin heaven should gie the earth a drink,
And afterhend a sunny blink,
Gin ye war here, I'm sure you'd think
It worth your notice,
To see them dubbs and gutters jink
Wi kiltit coaties.

And frae ilk corner o' the nation,
We've lasses eke of recreation,
That at close-mouths tak up their station
By ten o'clock.
The Lord deliver frae temptation
A' honest fock!

Thir queans are ay upon the catch
For pursie, pocket-book, or watch,
And can sae glibb their leesins hatch,
That you'll agree,
Ye canna eithly meet their match
'Tween you and me.

For this gude sample o' your skill,
I'm restin you a pint o' yill,
By and attour a Highland gill
Of aqua vitae;
The which to come and sock at will,
I here invite ye.

Tho' jillet Fortune scoul and quarrel,
And keep me frae a bien beef barrel,
As lang's I've twopence i' the warl',
I'll ay be vockie
To part a fadge or girdle farl
Wi Louden Jockie.

Farewell, my cock! Lang may ye thrive,
Weel happit in a cozy hive;
And that your saul may never dive
To Acheron,
I'll wish as lang's I can subscrive
Rob. Fergusson.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net