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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
CALLER WATER, by ROBERT FERGUSSON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Whan father adie first pat spade in Last Line: The muse, and me. Alternate Author Name(s): Ferguson, Robert | |||
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 patient noddles to confuse; Wi' simples clad in terms abstruse, They labour still, In kittle words to gar you 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 than discover, Whether the features under shade Were worth a lover? As simmer rains bring simmer flow'rs And leaves to cleed the birken bowers, Sae beauty gets by caller show'rs, Sae rich a bloom As for estate, or heavy dow'rs Aft stands in room. What makes Auld Reikie's dames sae fair, It canna be the halesome air, But caller burn beyond compare, The best of ony, That gars them a' sic graces skair, And blink sae bonny. On May-day in a fairy ring, We've seen them round St. Anthon's spring, Frae grass the caller dew draps wring, To weet their ein, And water clear as chrystal spring, To synd them clean. O may they still pursue the way To look sae feat, sae clean, sae gay! Then shall their beauties glance like May, And, like her, be The goddess of the vocal spray, The Muse, and me. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DAFT DAYS by ROBERT FERGUSSON A DRINK ECLOGUE: LANDLADY, BRANDY AND WHISKY by ROBERT FERGUSSON AN ECLOGUE by ROBERT FERGUSSON AN ECLOGUE, TO THE MEMORY OF DR WILLIAM WILKE, LATE PROFESSOR by ROBERT FERGUSSON AULD REIKIE by ROBERT FERGUSSON CALLER OYSTERS by ROBERT FERGUSSON ELEGY ON JOHN HOGG, LATE PORTER TO THE UNIVERSITY OF ST ANDREWS by ROBERT FERGUSSON ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF SCOTS MUSIC by ROBERT FERGUSSON ELEGY, ON THE DEATH OF MR DAVID GREGORY, LATE PROFESSOR OF ST ANDREWS by ROBERT FERGUSSON EPISTLES BETWEEN AND ANDREW GRAY AND ROBERT FERGUSSON: TO ANDREW GRAY by ROBERT FERGUSSON EPISTLES BETWEEN J.S. AND ROBERT FERGUSSON: ANSWER TO J.S.'S EPISTLE by ROBERT FERGUSSON |
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