Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE ELECTION, by ROBERT FERGUSSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE ELECTION, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Rejoice, ye burghers, ane an' a'
Last Line: O' death yon night.
Alternate Author Name(s): Ferguson, Robert
Subject(s): Elections; Voting; Voters; Suffrage


Rejoice, ye burghers, ane an' a',
Lang look't for's come at last;
Sair war your backs held to the wa
Wi poortith an' wi fast:
Now ye may clap your wings an' craw,
And gayly busk ilk feather,
For Deacon cocks hae pass'd a law
To rax an' weet your leather
Wi drink thir days.

"Haste Epps," quo John, "an' bring my gez,
Take tent ye dinna't spulzie;
Last night the barber gae't a friz,
An' straikit it wi ulzie.
Hae done your parritch, lassie Liz,
Gie me my sark an' gravat;
I'se be as braw's the Deacon is
Whan he taks affidavit
O' faith the day."

"Whar's Johnny gaun," cries neebor Bess,
"That he's sae gayly boden,
Wi new-kaim'd wig, weel syndet face,
Silk hose, for hamely hodin?"
"Our Johnny's nae sma drink, you'll guess,
He's trig as ony muir-cock,
An' forth to mak a Deacon, lass;
He downa speak to poor fock
Like us the day."

The coat ben-by i' the kist-nook,
That's been this towmonth swarmin,
Is brought yence mair thereout to look,
To fleg awa the vermin:
Menzies o' moths an' flaes are shook,
An' i' the floor they howder,
Till in a birn beneath the crook
They're singit wi a scowder
To death that day.

The canty cobler quats his sta,
His rozet an' his lingans;
His bouk has dree'd a sair, sair fa
Frae meals o' bread an' ingans:
Now he's a pow o' wit an' law,
An' taunts at soals an' heels;
To Walker's he can rin awa,
There whang his creams an' jeels
Wi life that day.

The lads in order tak their seat,
(The deil may claw the clungest)
They stegh an' connach sae the meat,
Their teeth mak mair than tongue haste:
Their claes sae cleanly dight an' feat,
An' eke their craw-black beavers,
Like masters mows hae found the gate
To tassels teugh wi slavers
Fu lang that day.

The dinner done, for brandy strang
They cry, to weet their thrapple,
To gar the stamack bide the bang,
Nor wi its ladin grapple.
The grace is said -- it's no owr lang;
The claret reams in bells;
Quod Deacon, "Let the toast round gang,
'Come, here's our noble sels
Weel met the day.'"

"Weel's me o' drink," quo Cooper Will,
"My barrel has been geyz'd ay,
An' has na gotten sic a fill
Sin fu on Handsel-Teysday;
But makes-na, now it's got a sweel,
Ae gird I shanna cast, lad,
Or else I wish the horned deil
May Will, wi kittle cast, dad
To hell the day!"

The Magistrates fu wyly are,
Their lamps are gayly blinking,
But they might as lieve burn elsewhere,
Whan fock's blind fu wi drinking.
Our Deacon wadna ca a chair,
The foul ane durst him na-say;
He took shanks' naig, but fient may care,
He arselins kiss'd the cawsey
Wi birr that night.

Weel loos me o' you, Souter Jock,
For tricks ye buit be trying,
Whan greapin for his ain bed-stock,
He fa's whare Will's wife's lying.
Will coming hame wi ither fock,
He saw Jock there before him:
Wi maister-laiglen, like a brock,
He did wi stink maist smore him
Fu strang that night.

Then wi a souple leathern whang
He gart them fidge and girn ay:
"Faith, chiel, ye's no for naething gang,
Gin ye maun reel my pirny."
Syne wi a muckle alshin lang
He brodit Maggie's hurdies;
An' 'cause he thought her i' the wrang,
There pass'd nae bonny wordies
'Mang them that night.

Now, had some laird his lady fand
In sic unseemly courses,
It might hae loos'd the haly band,
Wi lawsuits an' divorces;
But the neist day they a' shook hands,
And ilka crack did sowder,
While Meg for drink her apron pawns,
For a' the gudeman cow'd her
Whan fu last night.

Glowr round the cawsey, up an' doun,
What mobbing and what plotting!
Here politicians bribe a loun
Against his saul for voting.
The gowd that inlakes half-a-croun
Thir blades lug out to try them,
They pouch the gowd, nor fash the toun
For weights an' scales to weigh them
Exact that day.

Then Deacons at the council stent
To get themsels presentit:
For towmonths twa their saul is lent,
For the town's gude indentit:
Lang's their debating thereanent,
About protests they're bauthrin;
While Sandy Fife, to mak content,
On bells plays Clout the Caudron
To them that day.

Ye louns that troke in doctors' stuff,
You'll now hae unco slaisters;
Whan windy blaws their stamacks puff,
They'll need baith pills an' plaisters;
For tho' ev'now they look right bluff,
Sic drinks, ere hillocks meet,
Will hap some Deacons in a truff,
Inrow'd in the lang leet
O' death yon night.





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