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TO THE PRINCIPAL AND PROFESSORS OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ST ANDREWS ....., by             Poem Explanation     Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: St andrews town may look right gawsy
Last Line: Will mend your prose and heal my rhyme.
Alternate Author Name(s): Ferguson, Robert
Subject(s): Johnson, Samuel (1709-1784); Schools; Teaching & Teachers; Universities & Colleges; Students; Educators; Professors


St Andrews town may look right gawsy,
Nae grass will grow upon her cawsey,
Nor wa-flow'rs of a yellow dye,
Glowr dowy owr her ruins high,
Sin Samy's head weel pang'd wi lear
Has seen the Alma Mater there:
Regents, my winsome billy boys!
'Bout him you've made an unco noise;
Nae doubt for him your bells wad clink,
To find him upon Eden's brink,
An' a' things nicely set in order,
Wad kep him on the Fifan border:
I'se warrant now frae France an' Spain,
Baith cooks and scullions mony ane
Wad gar the pats an' kettles tingle
Around the college kitchen ingle,
To fleg frae a' your craigs the roup,
Wi reiking het and crieshy soup;
And snails and puddocks mony hunder
Wad beeking lie the hearth-stane under,
Wi roast and boil'd, an' a' kin kind,
To heat the body, cool the mind.

But hear me, lads! gin I'd been there,
How I wad trimm'd the bill o' fare!
For ne'er sic surly wight as he
Had met wi sic respect frae me.
Mind ye what Sam, the lying loun!
Has in his Dictionar laid doun?
That aits in England are a feast
To cow an' horse an' siccan beast,
While in Scots ground this growth was common
To gust the gab o' man an' woman.
Tak tent, ye Regents! then, an' hear
My list o' gudely hameil gear,
Sic as hae often rax'd the weym
O' blyther fallows mony time;
Mair hardy, souple, steeve an' swank,
Than ever stood on Samy's shank.

Imprimis, then, a haggis fat,
Weel tottl'd in a seything pat,
Wi spice and ingans weel ca'd thro',
Had help'd to gust the stirrah's mou,
And plac'd itsel in truncher clean
Before the gilpy's glowrin een.

Secundo, then, a gude sheep's head
Whase hide was singit, never flead,
And four black trotters cled wi girsle,
Bedown his throat had learn'd to hirsle.
What think ye neist, o' gude fat brose
To clag his ribs? a dainty dose!
And white and bloody puddins routh,
To gar the doctor skirl, "O Drouth!"
Whan he could never houp to merit
A cordial o' reaming claret,
But thraw his nose, and brize and pegh
Owr the contents o' sma ale quegh:
Then let his wisdom girn an' snarl
Owr a weel-toastit girdle farl,
An' learn, that maugre o' his wame,
Ill bairns are ay best heard at hame.

Drummond, lang syne, o' Hawthornden,
The wyliest an' best o' men,
Has gien you dishes ane or mae,
That wad ha' gar'd his grinders play,
Not to roast beef, old England's life,
But to the auld east nook of Fife,
Whare Creilian crafts could weel hae gien
Skate-rumples to hae clear'd his een;
Then neist, whan Samy's heart was faintin,
He'd lang'd for skate to mak him wanton.

Ah! willawins, for Scotland noo,
Whan she maun stap ilk birky's mou
Wi eistacks, grown as 'tware in pet
In foreign land, or green-house het,
When cog o' brose an' cutty spoon
Is a' our cottar childer's boon,
Wha thro' the week, till Sunday's speal,
Toil for pease-clods an' gude lang kail.
Devall then, Sirs, and never send
For daintiths to regale a friend,
Or, like a torch at baith ends burning,
Your house'll soon grow mirk and mourning.

What's this I hear some cynic say?
Robin, ye loun! it's nae fair play;
Is there nae ither subject rife
To clap your thumb upon but Fife?
Gie owr, young man, you'll meet your corning,
Than caption waur, or charge o' horning;
Some canker'd surly sour-mou'd carline
Bred near the abbey o' Dumfarline,
Your shoulders yet may gie a lounder,
An' be of verse the mal-confounder.

Come on, ye blades! but ere ye tulzie,
Or hack our flesh wi sword or gulzie,
Ne'er shaw your teeth, nor look like stink,
Nor owr an empty bicker blink:
What weets the wizen an' the weym,
Will mend your prose and heal my rhyme.





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