Rough Scan
PAPISTRY STORM’D

SANG THIRD




ARGUMENT

This sang sall tell o’ scrimmage fell
=Whair Lollard folks were winners;
And Papist gang, frae cudgels’ bang,
=How they were famous rinners:
Syn ane and a’ in Frater-ha’,
=How feastit weil the sinners;
And ither things this ballad sings
=O’ suppers and o’ dinners.

Dan George the Kinness-burn had crost,
And near was comin’ till that host,
Whan Barns spy’d, frac his upwart place,
That lamp o’ learnin’, George’s face:
For George to him was as a brither;
They’d read lang Latin books thegither,
And gash’d and gabb’d wi’ ane anither.
He, as he spy’d him, gaif command,
That his hail companie should stand,
And honour, as it did effeir,
The man o’ merriment and leir:
Whairat the host upcast their caps,
And hands and lungs gaif shouts and claps;
The rocks and braes a’ thairabout
Rang wi’ the echo o’ that shout,
Till, round the kirk-heugh, on the wave
It ran to Ladie Buchan’s cave.

Whan they had ither greetit weil,
Quo George; My brithren, true and leill!
Great glee, perdie, my spreit doth feel
=To see your braw array;
You’re welcome to Sanct Androis town,
T’ extirpate ilka shaven crown,
And batter wi’ your hammers down
=Their idols as you may:
You see them yonder, girnin’ braw,
Within their niches in the wa’;
You needna drede to gar them fa’,
=And kiss the ditches’ dirt;
Grey-freir and black, ilk devil’s whelp,
That in our city youff and yelp,
They’ll a’ be better for a skelp;
=We’ll thank you meikle for’t:
And in guid hour you’re come, perfay,
To gi’e our filthy freirs a fray;
At twa o’clock they hald this day
=A grand solemnitie;
Out to owr Ladie’s Craig they gang
To worship there wi’ prayer and sang
Their saint’s auld banes, wham tempest dang
=Aff frae the stormie sea:
Just lie in wait aside the wa’,
Ye’ll catch them marchin’ in a raw
Wi’ crosses, caps, and tippets braw,
=And rotten banes, beside;
Rise and assailzie them at anes;
I fain would ken if useless banes
Will guard frae raps o’ sticks and stanes
=Their bellies and their pride;
I’ll say nae mair, my brethren dear!—
March for the ambusche and the weir;
Spulzie be your’s o’ crosses clear;
Baith rotten banes and ither gear,
=May wealth o’ them betide!
This said, the host wi’ richt guid will
Begoud to waigle down the hill:
They cross’t St Nich'las drubbly rill;
=And up till th’ Abbey wa’
Doucely they march’t in close array;
And there, in ambuscado lay,
Till priests and freirs, baith black and grey,
=Should ishue in a raw.

Mean time, as dinin’-time was by,
And stammachs clung, and thrapples dry,
=They thocht on drink and meat;
Good luck it was that frae the coast
The Commissariat o’ that host
Brocht up baith sodden flesh and roast,
=Though cauld, yet guid to eat;
Sae frae their creels and wallets Stout,
Belyve they haurl’d and draggit out
Great hams and legs o’ sheep and nowt,
=And venison and veal;
And down upo’ the gerss they gat,
And there in raws rejoicin’ sat,
Smaicherin’ awa at lean and fat,
=Up-gabblin’, tooth and nail:
Nor did they laik delicious liquor
To gar their meat gang down the quicker,
=For weil had they taen tent
To bring up nappies strang and nice,
O’ ilk kinkind and ilka price,
=To cherish them whan faint;
Their warst o’ drinks was yill, the whilk
Dan David Barclay drank like milk;
=Nor did the Piper spare it;
But Fisher-Willie and the lairds
To nae sic sma’ drink paid regards,
But wash’d their gebbies and their beards
=In sparklin’ jaws o’ claret.

_They’re comin’!_ cry’d a bodie out;
_They’re comin’ now — I ken their shout;_
_Canons and freirs, and rabble-rout,_
=_Down chantin’ by the mill!_
_I hear their aves and their trumps!_
Cry’d Sipsies out, and up he jumps:
_Banes-breakin’ now, and bluidy bumps!_
Exclaims the clerk, — _Hae done wi’ rumps;_
=_Up halbert now and bill!_
Up frae the gerss their arms they get,
And craftilie their buschment set
On ilk side o’ the southern yett
=In hidlins near the wa’:
Ready, whan that the train cam out,
T’ assailzie them wi’ clour and clout,
And play their batterin’-rams about
=Upon the bellies braw:
They were nae lang in comin’ down;
Cornets and caps, and comets soon,
Grey-freir and black wi’ shaven crown,
Tippit, and chesybil, and gown,
=Cam gushin’ like a stream,
Wi’ trumps and cymbals soundin’ high,
And chanters skirlin’ in their cry,
And banners owr their beads that fly,
And tapers bleezin’ up the sky,
Makin’ the gowden sun envy
=The dazzle and the gleam:
Without the yett they were na lang,
Whan, frae their buschment in a bang,
Uprase that army, thick and strang,
=Wi’ halyballoo and shout;
Crail’s merry clerk the war-sign gaff;
He was the first wi’ aiken staff
To chastify freir Tullidaff,
That bure on high the gowden calf,
=The idol o’ that rout:
The saint’s auld relics wi’ the strokes
Were stricken frae their cedar-box;
Barrow and banes wi’ kicks and knocks
=Were daddit round about;
Then, hirie-harie! folks did rusch;
Then rag’d the scrimmage and strabusch;
Crail vy’d wi’ Anster at the brusch;
=Was ne’er sic bickerin’-bout!
The aiken rungs on backs did batter,
The clods and stanes on crowns did clatter;
Bellies, the heicher they were and fatter,
Were dunsched in and grus’d the flatter,
=Wi’ mickle pyne, but doubt:
Trumps, tapers, tippets, a’ were marr’d;
In skreighs the singers’ voices jarr’d;
The bagpipes, late that pantit hard,
=Were chok’d for want o’ breath;
Sic hubbub and sic hubble-shew,
As scamper’t aff the frichtet crew!
The grey-freir gap’d, the black-freir blew;
The canon scream’d, the shavelin’ flew,
=As if ‘tween life and death:
And some ran ae gate, some anither;
Some northlins, southlins; some in swither
Ran first the tae gate, than the tither,
Glad to escape by any whither
=That herriment and scaith.

John Tottis, though he fain would rin,
He couldna budge a single shin;

For Messer Barclay had him grippet
Ticht by the belt, and haurl’d his tippet,
And birs’d his beirdly pensch and nippit:
Whairat the grey-freir, Johnnie Tottis,
Wi’ bernin’ indignation hot is;
Twa wee bit bodies they were baith,
But whan their bluid was up in wreth,
As birsy’s bears, and mad for scaith;
They warslet teuch wi’ gurlie grapple;
They ettlet fierce at ither’s thrapple:
They dunch’d wi’ knees and elbucks baith;
Till, at the last, depreev’d o’ breath,
They plumpit down frae whare they stood,
Amang the harbour’s sludge and mud;
They row’d thegither in the slunk;
Their heads were up, their bodies sunk;
What wi’ the slusch they ate and drunk,
I wat, Dan Barclay’s vital spunk
=Had soon been dead and gane;
But Oliphant (‘twas sae decreed)
Rax’d his lang arm in nick o’ need,
And, grippin’ Barclay by the heid,
(As fisher hauls a cod indeed),
=Upheez’d him safe again;
I trow, he was weel slim’d and soakit;
Great dads o’ sludge amaist him chokit,
As ever and aye his mou outbockit
=The waters he had taen;
But Johnnie Tottis, feckless bodie,
Lay wallowin’ in mis’ry muddy;
Men help’t him not; but (throu’ the saints)
He flounder’t owr untill the Bents;
Loud gaups o’ lauchter shook the bank,
As Johnnie slaister’d throu’ the stank.

But whan that broillerie was dune,
Baith Erth below and Heaven abune
=Bare witness to that tuilzie;
For Heav’n was dim wi’ stoury cluds
That up had risen wi’ the thuds,
And Erth was strawn wi’ rags and duds,
=The battle’s divers spuilzie:
Here lay a cross; and here the tippet
Whairwi’ wee John had been equippet;
Wide copes, great hoods a’ riv’n and rent,
And scapularies scuff’d and shent,
And knottit girdles queer and quaint,
Lay hither-thither on the bent;
Bagpipes lay bit and bit asunder;
The drone was here, the chanter yonder;
A book was here, and there a bell,
A missal and a scallop-shell;
Tapers yet smeekin’ on the stanes
Mixt wi’ the saints’ auld reekit banes;
The barrow’s blads dash’d round about;
A trump, a taburine, and clout
=O’ Tullidaff’s lang gown:
The Lollard host had heartsom glee
The ruins o’ that fecht to see;
And monie a gaulp and loud tehee
=Resoundit up and down.
Fy! fy! cry’d Dan Buchanan out,
Gae, gather up, ye impious rout,
The saints’ black banes that under foot
=Lie trodden as you see:
Aiblins, upon some future day,
Yon henckle-bane, though mouldie, may
Be a Palladium in a fray
=To guard baith you and me:
Nae sooner said, than Piper Jock,
Wi’ wicket murgeonin’ and mock,
Pick’t up the banes that lay like brock
And clappit them intill ane poke.

Their host thairafter did return
Till their first lair by Kinness-burn;
Thair lookin’ up, whan Sipsies saw
The marble mawments earvit braw
Stuck in their niches i’ the wa’,
=A gloomie gluntch shot he;
I wot, he cry’d, ‘tis now the hour
To mak yon ladies feel our power,
And bring them, in a stany shower,
=Tumblin’ frae whair you see:
This said, he summon’d soon thegither
His regiment (a jolly futher!)
The wabsters o’ the town o’ Crail,
Men ferdy-limb’d and swank and hale,
Whase hearts had soukit all the haill
The pith o’ parritch and cauld kaill:
Instead o’ helm or morrion,
Thir weirlike wabsters everilkon
Had ane Kilmarnock nicht-cap on,
That flamit like the settin’ son:
And round his head ilk ane held swappin’
A timmer treadle for a wappen:
Whan he beheld his yeomanrie,
Their eagerness and energie,
And how they toss’t their arms on hie,
He thus accostit them: My lads!
Ye see yon girnin’ Romish jads,
Provokin’ you to gi’e them dads,
=And tumble them i’ the ditches:
Let us divide our troop in twa;
Ilk half gang raikin round the wa’,
Ane north, the tither westlins ga
=Displenishin’ the niches:
Let the haill dyke he purgit clean;
Ae virgin mair be never seen!—
Farewell! we’ll meet at Greg’ry’s green,
=In half an hour or thairabout:
Sae speakin’, he began th’ attack;
He raucht his halbert up, and brack
=An image that stood starin’ out;
She devel’d down a hideous wrack,
Her head dissociate frae her back;
=In splendirs flew the stane about:
Thairat, the soldiers o’ his band,
Seein’ their master’s micht o’ hand,
=Ramstam flew ragin’ aff;
Some to the left, some to the richt,
To soop the wa’s wi’ a’ their micht,
=Ilk wabster wi’ his staff;
Nae mercy than for Papish Maries;
In flinders flew the carv’t fleegaries;
Some hit the head, and some the showther,
Some pash’d at ance the pow to powther;
Sic clamahewits and sic baff
Were never rain’d frae feckless staffs;
In twenty minutes, less or mair,
Of a’ the idols lately there
=Pitcht on that Abbey wa’,
A man mith rax his een in vain
Ere he could spy upon a stane
=An idol heich or law;
Sic cleanly wark, and sae perfyte,
Wi’ chappin’-sticks that sair did smyte
=Crail’s merrymen did mak;
Crown’d wi’ red nicht-caps they gaed out,
But wi’ Victoria’s joyfu’ shout
=Cam crown’d wi’ glory back!

Mean time throu’ Priorie and town
The monster Fame gaed up and down
=As fast as she could post;
(Her feet laigh on the causey paikin’;
Her head amang the thin clouds raikin’,
Heigh, heigh aboon Salvador’s steeple,)
Yelpin’ aloud to a’ the people
=The tidings o’ that host;
The monie thousand gabs, within
The plumes, that sur-invest her skin
=Gaed clatterin’ and clashin’;
Ae gapin’ gab did utter true;
Great lies gush’d frae anither mou’:
=A third wi’ baith kept gashin’:
Like squibs and crackers fired aft,
You mith hae heard them up alaft
=Sound owr ilk chimla-tap:
What wi’ their yammerin’ and din,
Lord Prior James, that sat within
His palace, maist frae out his skin
=Wi’ awsome terrour lap;
Chiefly i’ th’ Priorie and round it
Th’ alarms and yellochins resoundit,
=For frae yon fecht that fell,
The frichten’t freirs cam in about,
Fleein’ wi’ panic-skriegh and shout,
Their faces white as linen clout,
Bearin’ the story o’ their rout
=To cloyster, ha’, and cell:
Ilk fae they saw, ilk baff they gat
Was by their fricht exaggerat;
=They tauld how that they met
A regiment o’ giants bauld,
Like to the Anakims of auld,
Wi’ clubs and wappens manifauld
=For deadlie battle set;
And some on faemy horses rode,
Whase manes, bedreepit red wi’ blood,
=Splash’t draps o’t i’ their een;
In iron boots some walk’t afoot;
On dragons some flew round about;
There never was in Fife but doubt
=Sic fleysome warriours seen:
As prief o’ which Sanct Rule’s dear banes
Were left to rot amang the stanes:
_A mercy on us,_ cry’d Dean Annan,
_We’re gane — our kirk’s nae langer stannin’!_
_Our anchor’s lost,_ scream’d John Arbuckle,
_We’re perish‘d a’, baith sma’ and muckle!_

Amid this dridder and this flurry,
St Magdalen’s big bell in a hurry
Begoud to reissle hurry-scurry:
That jowin’ jangle was the ca’,
For th’ Abbey people, ane and a’,
To congregate i’ th’ Frater-ha’:
‘Twas hour o’ dine or thereabout;
Hunger was i’ their wambes nae doubt,
But terrour, too, was round about;
And terrour garr’d them loup pell-mell
Frae senzie-house, kirk, court, and cell,
In omne-gatherum at that bell;
As whan the bees some day in June
Stravaig frae risin’ sun till noon;
If mirky clouds in th’ afternoon
=Come stowfin’ up the west,
Hear they but anes the thunner-claps,
And in the leaves the plouterin’ draps,
They gi’e their sma’ wings sudden claps,
Amd hurry hamewarts to their scaps
=For cosy skoug and rest;
Sae did that Abbey people a’
Effrey’t flee to the Frater-ha’,
Canon, and monk, and dean, and prior,
And batie-bum, and beggin’ freir,
A congregation wode wi’ fear,
Though fat, in dulesome dreiry cheir:
The porch ne’er witness’t sic a flither;
They pous’d, they jundy’d ane anither;
Their wambes afftimes were jamm’d thegither;
Mair space they had i’ th’ ha’, though thrang!
It was a dainty room and lang;
(I am a man of five feet three;
‘Twas twenty times the lenght o’ me:)
Guid hap, their dinner then was laid
Upon the tables lang and braid,
Wi’ damask napery owrspread;
And gowden trunscheors like the moon,
Wi’ correspondin’ fork and spoon;
A wilderness o’ meat was set;
Sea, soil, and sky, were here a’ met;
Fish, flesh, and fowl, baith cauld and het;
And florentines, and pies, and tarts,
Rang’d here and there in sindry parts,
And sauces, soups, and geills, and creams,
Up-stowfin’ to the roof their steams,
Wi’ bonnie fruitage, ripe and red,
In silverised baskets spread:
And siller jugs and stoups divine
O’ malvesie and claret-wine,
Shimmering like suns in order fine:
Temptation reel’d in tass and bicker,
Dancin’ divinely ‘mang the liquor;
It wad a Nazarite provokit
To break his vow and tak a bok o’t,
Untill his hail-life’s drowth were slockit
Had I been there that nicht, I think,
Though I’m a man o’ little drink,
I wadna been sae doons perjink;
But taen an over-loup for sport:—
I’d got the Paip’s indulgence for’t!

Whan they were a’ forgadder’t there,
Lord Prior James got on a chair,
And cry’d, _A truce to elrisch fricht!_
_Let’s dine, my friends, and that outricht;_
_Fu’ stamach maks faint heart mair wight,_
_And of a’ sorrows, it's confest,_
_A sorrow that is fu’ ‘s aye best:_
Sae down they cloytet on their seats,
And helter-skelter at the meats;
As Lybian lions, that on prey
Licht, after danderin’ monie a day,
Ramsch skin, flesh, bane, e’en sae did they;
As windmill blades, whan wind does happen,
Rin reeshlin’ round and round, and rappin’,
While, ever as the shafts gae swappin’,
The grindin’-graith below gaes clappin’;
Sae quick, or rather mickle quicker,
Their chaft-blades back and fore did bicker;
Baith jaws, as if they vy’d thegither,
Sae quiver’d, nae man could tell whether
Gaed faster, th’ upper or the nether;
Nor waur their lungs for wauchts were giftit;
The siller stoups on heigh upliftit
Were tootit in a whip and tiftit;
Eat-weil, they say, is drink-weil's brither;
Or rather, ane may say, its mither;
But ca' it either tane or tither,
That nicht they were leisch'd in thegither;
Had Epicurus sell been waitin'
Upon them as they pang'd their meat in,
He couldna weil hae blam'd the eatin';
Had Bacchus sell been there, I'm thinkin',
For pumpin' bottles and for skinkin',
For couldna weil hae blam'd the drinkin':
Sae what wi' tootin', what wi' eatin',
Their hearts, whan they had got some heat in,
Were stapt frae duntin' and frae beatin'.

Lord Prior James again uprase;
Ah, by Sanct Mary bricht! he says,
Me had thir Lollards no distrubill'd,
My denner had been nearly doubl'd;
Yet it is marvel nae the less,
That we hae made sae guid a mess,
Considerin' how our Sanct's dear banes,
Under whase shade we denner'd anes,
Lie now out bleachin' on the stanes:
Ah, wae is me! sic heavy dule
Ne'er yet hath happen't to Sanct Rule;
The storm that dang him frae the deep,
Upon our tangly skellies steep,
Was naething to the tempest black
Frae that oultrageous Lollard-pack;
That maks his banes to-day a wrack:
The barbare rocks that caught him than
In mercy, sav'd the haly man;
But this rock-heartit crew o' Luther
Will persecute his banes to powther;
Unless we do devise some means
Whereby to vindicate the banes;
And skail that mad ill-gainshon'd byke
O' Test'ment-men that doth us fyke,
To Anster back or Callardyke:
Whasa than can devise a way,
Let him up-speik as best he may,
For de'il haet mair hae I say.

He sat him down to birl and quaff;
And up to speik rase Tullidaff;
I swear by him that made the moon!
The menzie o' that German loon
Hae pykin' been at this my gown,
=And made ae flype their plunder;
(So sayin', up to view he gaff
His lang-gown wi' its flype torn aff;
The ha' resoundit wi' a lauff
=To see it rent asunder;)
Yet though my vestment thus be rent,
Sanct Geil! my spreit is yet unshent;
Thir scoundrels o' the Testament
=I challenge them ilk ane;
If no for Latin or for lear,
At least to joust or break a spear,
And fecht them butten fricht or fear
=Upon the gerssy plain:
This vera nicht I sall send out
A bauld defiance to the rout;
Cheise they a champion steeve and stout
=To battle for thei wangill;
I, in my coat of airn or bress,
Sall stand to battle for the Mess,
And for our injur'd kirk's redress
=Sall tuilzie like and angel;
And let the fecht's conditions be;
If their priev'd knicht owr-tirvie me,
Keep they the banes but strife or plea
=Whilk this day they hae cleiket;
If I, wi' help o' Mary bricht,
Dumfounder to the death their knicht,
Let them gie back thir relics richt
=Within their cophine steekit;
I hae na better rede to gie;
If you hae better deal it free;
Gin this is best, than tak frae me
=And use the counsel as you may:
He scarce had endit, whan a gabble
O' tongues and raps upo' the tabill,
Frae that wine-flister't ribble-rabbill,
=Was Tullidaff's gude say.

Whan Tullidaff was dune wi' stannin',
Than up to his shanks gat John Annan;
QUoth he, "You're vera richt in plannin'
=How to rescue the banes;
But by Sanct Fillan! think alswa
How to rebut and schue awa
Thir damnit faes that siege our wa’
=Wi’ wappens for the nanes;
Send forth a messenger to carry
The tidings to the Regent Mary;
Tell her o’ a’ this fiery-farie,
=Uprisen round our town;
And bid her and Lord Bishop send
Frae Falkland, whair they now attend,
A troop o’ jackmen to defend
=His mitre and her crown;
Sae sall this vile canallyie-host
Be huntit downwarts to the coast;
And duds and flypes that hae been lost
=Be found again richt soon."
He scarce had ceas’d, whan John Arbuckle
Upon the tabill dang his knuckle,
=And cry’d, — "I chap this thing;
Mine be the embassage to carry
To guid Lord Bishop and Queen Mary
The tithand o’ this fiery-farie,
=And jackmen thence to bring."
Up-spak Lord Prior James: "I trow,
Twa strings are best aye to ane’s bow;
I do apprieve that John Arbuckle,
Bein’ a man o’ courage muckle,
Himsel up for this bus’ness buckle:
Mean time, at ilka abbey-yett,
Let guards and sentries round be sett;
And be ilk tow’r and turret mann’d
Wi’ michty warriours out-o’-hand,
That frae nocturnal ‘sault may stent
Thir rybalds o’ the Testament."
He spak, and instant a’ the senzie
Did ratifie it without plenzie;
Apprieval rang loud frae their menzie.

Whilst they i’ th’ Priorie this-gate
Were gain’ on at sic a rate
=Wi’ clamour and wi’ feast,
Nae less the burghers throu’ the town
Were yelpin’, skelpin’, up and down,
=Contrair the Roman beast:
For now Conspiracie stalk’d out
Nakit, without a gyzin-cloul,
Red-wud for some destruction-bout;
Frae the West-port to Greg’ry’s-green,
Was naething heard and naething seen,
=But tongue-strabush and war;
And Market-street did, like a Babel,
Wi’ bladderand bodies yaup and yabble;
The South-street gowl’d wi’ gibble-gabble,
=The North-street meikle waur;
The wynds were claikin’ wi’ the clatter;
The Foul-waste bumm’d wi’ blitter-blatter;
Tongues never wi’ sic clitter-clatter
=Did jangle and did jarr;
Wives fir’d and frenzy’d up the men;
The men inflam’d the wives agen;
Schule-bairns, withouten shoe or cape,
Gaed skirlin’ treason ‘gainst the Pape;
Auld folks, that scarce could grin or gape,
At Papistry did gleek and jaip:
The douce professors in their gowns
Stood preachin’ on the causey-crowns,
And the puir students, (fractious lowns!)
=At ilka college-yett,
To paternosters, fiends and freirs,
Proclaimit mad and mortal weirs,
=Ere that the sun be set:
They spacier’d back and fore in bands,
Wi’ lowin’ sticks intill their hands,
Threat’nin’ to hurl the bernin’ brands,
=And pay the de’il his debt;
Till ane i’ the College-wynd cry’d out,
"Aha! what deil are we about,
Tossin’ our heads wi’ yell and youtt,
Like Hannibal’s fire-puttin’ nowt,
=For nocht but idle schaw?
Let’s down to meet the southern host,
And greet the heroes frae the coast,—
Awa’ — there’s nae time to be lost;—
=Aff, birkies, ane and a’!"
Incontinent he took his heels;
And after him an hundred chiels,
As hallockit and rais’d as de’ils,
=Ran hirdie-girdie skirrin’;
"_Hurra!_" they yellochit a’ throuther;
"_Hurra! Lear, Libertie, and Luther!_"
And split the crowd wi’ shank and showther,
=Like bombard-shot a-birrin’;
The rabble, whan they saw them rin,
To follow too did straucht begin;
And eastlins, like a rairin’ linn,
=Ran down the South-street whirrin’:
Tam Pethrie’s horse, a scurvy hack,
Wi’ lades o’ camstane on his back,
=In the Eastburn-wynd was stannin’;
Camstane and creels, and Tam and horse,
Were overturnit by their force,
=As if wi’ sweep o’ cannon;
And down they rushet like a jaw
Alangside o’ the Abbey-wa’,
Till, comin’ near the burn, they saw
=The southern host outspread,
Busk’d in the abuilyiements o’ weir,
Ensenyies waffin’ lang and clear,
And halbert tall, and lance and speir,
=Hie glitterin’ owr their head;
Whairat they gat up wi’ a shout,
Strathtyrum rattlet round about:
Had Luther’s sonsy sell been seen
Stappin’ alang St Nich’las’ green,
A greater joy there couldna been
=Than what did then befa’,
As intill ithers’ arms they rush’t,
And hands were shaken, hearts were flush’t,
And blobs o’ joyous tears outgush’t
=Beside that Abbey-wa’.

Mean time the sun’s red steeds had haurl’d
To the north-wastern side o’ th’ warld
=His fiery-wheelit car;
The isles o’ Lewis and o’ Sky
Lay blinkin’ in the beams that fly
=Out frae their nastrills far;
And now ae mament they did rest
On Hecla’s frost-becrystall’d breast
=Their trachlet feet a wee,
Ere that they left the heevinly pend,
And lap wi’ ane prodigious stend
=Aneath the warld intill the sea:
And Hawkey now, weel sair’d wi’ food,
Within the byre forwearyt stood,
Whilst Grizzy maks the pails to flutter
Wi’ torrents ominous o’ butter.
The plewman frae his day-lang swink
Lay restin’ on the kitchen-bink,
Richt glad his fire-hung pat to hear
Singin’ and dringin’, token clear
That merry parridge-time was near.
Sanct Salvador had frae his tower
Clankit aught straiks to tell the hour;
And, by that time, the host that lay
Encampit near the Kirkheugh brae,
What wi’ the town’s-folks thick and thrang,
And ither re-enforements strang,
That a’ that simmer e’enin’ lang
=Cam’ draiglin’ in wi’ arms,
Had gather’t and increasit sae,
That the hail space that stretchit frae
The Abbey-park to Kirkheugh-brae
=Was bizzin’ wi’ the swarms:
As bees, whan simmer overheaps
The population o’ the skapes,
Aft emigrate and flee in heaps
=To garden-bush and flower;
Sae thick they owr the fulzies stalk,
The gard’ner, as he taks his walk,
Scarce kens agen his fav’rite stalk
=Wi’ clusters cleedit owr;
E’en sae the space frae th’ Abbey-park,
Round to the Heugh and Dennis-wark,
Was crawlin’ wi’ sae pang a mass,
You scarce could see a spat o’ grass.
As now the moon had got the upper,
They ‘gan to think upon their supper:
And supper frae the city cam’
Creakin’ in carts, whase tree and tram
Wi bangs o’ beef and hills o’ ham
=Did tremble and did crack;
Hurlbarrows, filled to their taps
Wi' saxpence laifs, and cakes, and baps,
Were haurlit down by baxter-chaps
=That vivers mith na’ lack;
And carters’ sleds heapt bonnily
Wi’ bacon-hams baith round and high
And kebbucks curlin’ to the sky
=Came draiglin’ down the street:
E’en Tammie Pethrie’s wrackit mare,
Had gather’d to her feet ance mair,
And chang’d her camstane for a skair
=O belly-timber sweet;
And Berwick’s yill-carts were asteer,
Rumblin’ wi’ barls o’ michtie beer;
That nicht his hogsheads were na sweer
=To rattle tow’rd the shore;
And ilka wine-booth thro’ the town
Threw out her bottles to the moon;
Sic fludes o’ liquor ne’er flow’d down
=The Eastburn-wynd before;
Weel you may see that siegin’ host
Had skaff and skink withouten cost;
Sae down they fell to boil’d and roast
=Upon the bonnie gerss;
They didna stick for forks and knives;
Ilk man at’s pleasure rugs and rives;
As if frae death to save their lives
=They swallow’d fast and fers;
And sic the flitter and the flutter,
O’ multitude o’ mous that smoutter,
A man mith weel had heard the clutter,
=And soundin’ o’ their chafts,
A mile ayont the Kenly-watter;
My faith, it was nae mincin’ matter;
There never was sic chaft-blade blatter
=On hairst-rigs or on crafts.