Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, RUSTIC COURTSHIP, by WILLIAM D. LATTO


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

RUSTIC COURTSHIP, by                    
First Line: Ance on a time twa gallant swains gaed forth upo' the spree
Last Line: But where they gaed, an' hoo they fared, the gudeness only kens!
Subject(s): Drinks & Drinking; Love; Wine


ANCE on a time twa gallant swains gaed forth upo' the spree,
An' they wad to yon castle go, their ladye-loves to see.
The tane he was a tailor bred, as I hae heard it tauld;
The tither (to complete my rhyme), he was a ploughman bauld.

The tailor's name was Bodkin Tam, frae Buttonhole he came;
The ploughman, he at Snipemire lived, an' Andro was his name.
Their cleedin' was as linen white, their faces black as coal;
Twa sweeter nosegays never bloom'd within a buttonhole.

O when they reach'd the castle door, an' tirl'd at the pin,
Their layde-loves leuch lood for joy, an' raise an' let them in.
"An' hoo's my darling Tibbockie?" the tailor he did cry;
"An' hoo's my winsome tailor lad?" the maiden did reply.

"What cheer, what cheer, my Peggy dear?" the ploughman he did
"Ou, brawlie, thank ye Snipie man!" replied the maiden gay. [say;
O then oor gallant gentleman into the hall did go,
An' fiddled, while the lassies tript the light fantastic toe.

But oh! alas! an' lack-a-day! for sic a set o' stupids!
A Bowman cam' an' shot a shaft, was keener far than Cupid's.
The ploughman in a press did hide; sauf's! hoo his heart was quailin';
The tailor near-hand hang'd himsel', when crawlin' owre a railin'.

The Bowman tane them ben, an' doon he bang'd the whuskey bottle;
An' there they sat, an' there they drank, till both o' them were dottle.
As blin' as bats they tane the gait, but tint themsels ootricht;
An' landit at the Horse Shoe Inn, at nine o'clock at nicht.

Syne to Mess John's the twasome hied, where they did rant an' roar,
An' kiss'd the servant queans, an' spew'd upo' the kitchen floor;
Till Gowlanthump cam' doon, his face wi' wrath as white as snaw,
An' threaten'd, if they didna flit, to tak' them to the law.

Neist owre the kirkyard stile they lap, wi' money a frichtsome yell,
An' whuppit doon the tow, an' rang auld Geordie Mortclaith's bell.
They fled at last amid a storm o' divots, sticks, an' stances;
But where they gaed, an' hoo they fared, the Gudeness only kens!





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