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THE KING'S BIRTH-DAY IN EDINBURGH, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: I sing the day sae aften sung
Last Line: And tunes her lays.
Alternate Author Name(s): Ferguson, Robert
Subject(s): Birthdays; George Iii, King Of England (1738-1820); Parties


I sing the day sae aften sung,
Wi which our lugs hae yearly rung,
In whase loud praise the Muse has dung
A' kind o' print;
But wow! the limmer's fairly flung;
There's naething in't.

I'm fain to think the joy's the same
In London town as here at hame,
Whare fock of ilka age and name,
Baith blind and cripple,
Forgather aft, O fy for shame!
To drink and tipple.

O Muse, be kind, and dinna fash us
To flee awa beyont Parnassus,
Nor seek for Helicon to wash us,
That heath'nish spring;
Wi Highland whisky scour our hawses,
And gar us sing.

Begin then, dame, ye've drunk your fill,
You wouldna hae the tither gill?
You'll trust me, mair would do you ill,
And ding you doitet:
Troth 'twould be sair agains my will
To hae the wyte o't.

Sing then, how, on the fourth of June,
Our bells screed aff a loyal tune,
Our ancient castle shoots at noon,
Wi flag-staff buskit,
Frae which the soldier blades come doun
To cock their musket.

Oh willawins! Mons Meg, for you,
'Twas firing crack'd thy muckle mou;
What black mishanter gart ye spew
Baith gut and gaw?
I fear they bang'd thy belly fu
Against the law.

Right seldom am I gien to bannin,
But, by my saul, ye was a cannon,
Could hit a man had he been stannin
In shire o' Fife,
Sax lang Scots miles ayont Clackmannan,
And tak his life.

The hills in terror would cry out,
And echo to thy dinsome rout;
The herds would gather in their nowt,
That glowr'd wi wonder,
Haflins afraid to bide thereout
To hear thy thunder.

Sing likewise, Muse, how blue-gown bodies,
Like scar-craws new taen down frae woodies,
Come here to cast their clouted duddies,
And get their pay:
Than them, what magistrate mair proud is
On king's birth-day?

On this great day the city-guard,
In military art well-lear'd,
Wi powder'd pow and shaven beard,
Gang thro' their functions,
By hostile rabble seldom spar'd
Of clarty unctions.

O soldiers! for your ain dear sakes,
For Scotland's, alias Land of Cakes,
Gie not her bairns sic deadly pakes,
Nor be sae rude,
Wi firelock or Lochaber aix,
As spill their blude.

Now round and round the serpents whiz,
Wi hissing wrath and angry phiz;
Sometimes they catch a gentle gizz,
Alake the day!
And singe, wi hair-devouring bizz,
Its curls away.

Should th' owner patiently keek round,
To view the nature of his wound,
Dead pussie, dragled thro' the pond,
Takes him a lounder,
Which lays his honour on the ground
As flat's a flounder.

The Muse maun also now implore
Auld wives to steek ilk hole and bore;
If baudrins slip but to the door,
I fear, I fear,
She'll no lang shank upon all-four
This time o' year.

Next day each hero tells his news
O' crackit crowns and broken broos,
And deeds that here forbid the Muse
Her theme to swell,
Or time mair precious abuse
Their crimes to tell.

She'll rather to the fields resort,
Whare music gars the day seem short,
Whare doggies play, and lambies sport,
On gowany braes,
Whare peerless Fancy hads her court,
And tunes her lays.





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