Classic and Contemporary Poetry
LEITH RACES, by ROBERT FERGUSSON Poem Explanation Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: In july month, ae bonny morn Last Line: Wi' straiks thir days! Alternate Author Name(s): Ferguson, Robert Subject(s): Horse Racing; Summer | ||||||||
IN July month, ae bonny morn, Whan Nature's rokelay green Was spread o'er ilka rigg o' corn, To charm our roving een; Glouring about I saw a quean, The fairest 'neath the lift; Her een ware o' the siller sheen, Her skin like snawy drift, Sae white that day. Quod she, 'I ferly unco sair, That ye sud musand gae, Ye wha hae sung o' Hallow-fair, Her winter's pranks and play: Whan on Leith-Sands the racers rare, Wi' Jocky louns are met, Their orrow pennies there to ware, And drown themsel's in debt Fu' deep that day.' And wha are ye, my winsome dear, That takes the gate sae early? Whare do ye win, gin ane may spier, For I right meikle ferly, That sic braw buskit laughing lass Thir bonny blinks shou'd gi'e, An' loup like Hebe o'er the grass, As wanton and as free, Frae dule this day. 'I dwall amang the caller springs That weet the Land o' Cakes, And aften tune my canty strings At bridals and late-wakes: They ca' me Mirth; I ne'er was kend To grumble or look sour, But blyth wad be a lift to lend, Gif ye wad sey my pow'r An' pith this day.' A bargain be't, and, by my feggs, Gif ye will be my mate, Wi' you I'll screw the cheery pegs, Ye shanna find me blate; We'll reel an' ramble thro' the sands, And jeer wi' a' we meet; Nor hip the daft and gleesome bands That fill Edina's street Sae thrang this day. Ere servant maids had wont to rise To seeth the breakfast kettle, Ilk dame her brawest ribbons tries, To put her on her mettle, Wi' wiles some silly chiel to trap, (And troth he's fain to get her,) But she'll craw kniefly in his crap, Whan wow! he canna flit her Frae hame that day. Now, mony a scaw'd and bare-ars'd lown Rise early to their wark, Enough to fley a muckle town, Wi' dinsome squeel and bark. 'Here is the true an' faithfu' list O' Noblemen and Horses; Their eild, their weight, their height, their grist, That rin for Plates or Purses Fu' fleet this day.' To whisky plooks that brunt for wooks On town-guard soldiers' faces, Their barber bauld his whittle crooks, An' scrapes them for the races: Their stumps erst us'd to filipegs, Are dight in spaterdashes Whase barkent hides scarce fend their legs Frae weet and weary plashes O' dirt that day. 'Come, hafe a care (the captain cries), On guns your bagnets thraw; Now mind your manual exercise, An' marsh down raw by raw.' And as they march he'll glowr about, Tent a' their cuts and scars: 'Mang them fell mony a gausy snout Has gusht in birth-day wars, Wi' blude that day. Her nanesel maun be carefu' now, Nor maun she pe misleard, Sin baxter lads hae seal'd a vow To skelp and clout the guard; I'm sure Auld Reikie kens o' nane That wou'd be sorry at it, Tho' they should dearly pay the kane, An' get their tails weel sautit And sair thir days. The tinkler billies i' the Bow Are now less eidant clinking, As lang's their pith or siller dow, They're daffin', and they're drinking. Bedown Leith Walk what burrochs reel Of ilka trade and station, That gar their wives an' childer feel Toom weyms for their libation O' drink thir days. The browster wives thegither harl A' trash that they can fa' on; They rake the grounds o' ilka barrel, To profit by the lawen: For weel wat they a skin leal het For drinking needs nae hire; At drumbly gear they take nae pet; Foul water slockens fire And drouth thir days. They say, ill ale has been the deid O' mony a beirdly lown; Then dinna gape like gleds wi' greed To sweel hail bickers down: Gin Lord send mony ane the morn, They'll ban fu' sair the time That e'er they toutit aff the horn Which wambles thro' their weym Wi' pain that day. The Buchan bodies thro' the beech Their bunch of Findrums cry, An' skirl out baul', in Norland speech, 'Gueed speldings, fa' will buy.' An', by my saul, they're nae wrang gear To gust a stirrah's mow; Weel staw'd wi' them, he'll never spear The price of being fu' Wi' drink that day. Now wyly wights at rowdy powl, An' flingin' o' the dice, Here brake the banes o' mony a soul, Wi' fa's upo' the ice: At first the gate seems fair an' straught, So they had fairly till her; But wow! in spite o' a' their maught, They're rookit o' their siller An' goud that day. Around whare'er ye fling your een, The haiks like wind are scourin' Some chaises honest folk contain, An' some hae mony a whore in; Wi' rose and lily, red and white, They gie themselves sic fit airs, Like Dian, they will seem perfite; But it's nae goud that glitters Wi' them thir days. The lyon here, wi' open paw, May cleek in mony hunder, Wha geck at Scotland and her law, His wyly talons under; For ken, tho' Jamie's laws are auld, (Thanks to the wise recorder), His lyon yet roars loud and bauld, To had the Whigs in order Sae prime this day. To town-guard drum of clangor clear, Baith men and steeds are raingit; Some liveries red or yellow wear, And some are tartan spraingit: And now the red, the blue e'en-now Bids fairest for the market; But, ere the sport be done, I trow Their skins are gayly yarkit And peel'd thir days. Siclike in Robinhood debates, Whan twa chiels hae a pingle; E'en-now some couli gets his aits, An' dirt wi' words they mingle, Till up loups he, wi' diction fu', There's lang and dreech contesting; For now they're near the point in view; Now ten miles frae the question In hand that night. The races o'er, they hale the dools, Wi' drink o' a' kin-kind; Great feck gae hirpling hame like fools, The cripple lead the blind. May ne'er the canker o' the drink E'er make our spirits thrawart, 'Case we git wharewitha' to wink Wi' een as blue's a blawart Wi' straiks thir days! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE ADVANCE OF SUMMER by MARY KINZIE THE SUMMER IMAGE by LEONIE ADAMS CANOEBIAL BLISS by JOSEPH ASHBY-STERRY THE END OF SUMMER by HENRY MEADE BLAND THE FARMER'S BOY: SUMMER by ROBERT BLOOMFIELD SONNET: 14. APPROACH OF SUMMER by WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES JULY IN WASHINGTON by ROBERT LOWELL ODE TO THE END OF SUMMER by PHYLLIS MCGINLEY 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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