An aff, an up the Cowgate

Fast, fast that day.

Wee Miller niest, the guard relieves,

An Orthodoxy raibles,

Tho in his heart he weel believes,

An thinks it auld wives’ fables:

But faith! the birkie wants a manse,

So, cannilie he hums them;

Altho his carnal wit an sense

Like hafflins-wise o’ercomes him

At times that day.

Now butt an ben the change-house fills,

Wi yill-caup commentators;

Here’s cryin out for bakes and gills,

An there the pint-stowp clatters;

While thick an thrang, an loud an lang,

Wi logic an wi Scripture,

They raise a din, that in the end

Is like to breed a rupture

O wrath that day.

Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair

Than either school or college:

It kindles wit, it waukens lear,

It pangs us fou o knowledge:

Be’t whisky-gill or penny wheep,

Or onie stronger potion,

It never fails, on drinkin deep,

To kittle up our notion,

By night or day.

The lads an lasses, blythely bent

To mind baith saul an body,

Sit round the table, weel content,

An steer about the toddy:

On this ane’s dress, an that ane’s leuk,

They’re makin observations;

While some are cozie i the neuk,

An forming assignations

To meet some day.

But now the Lord’s ain trumpet touts,

Till a’ the hills are rairin,

And echoes back return the shouts;

Black Russell is na spairin:

His piercin words, like Highlan swords,

Divide the joints an marrow;

His talk o Hell, whare devils dwell,

Our vera sauls does harrow

Wi fright that day!

A vast, unbottom’d, boundless pit,

Fill’d fou o lowin brunstane,

Whase ragin flame, an scorchin heat,

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!

The half-asleep start up wi fear,

An think they hear it roarin;

When presently it does appear,

Twas but some neebor snorin

Asleep that day.

Twad be owre lang a tale to tell,

How monie stories past;

An how they crouded to the yill,

When they were a’ dismist;

How drink gaed round, in cogs an caups,

Amang the furms an benches;

An cheese an bread, frae women’s laps,

Was dealt about in lunches,

An dawds that day.

In comes a gawsie, gash guidwife,

An sits down by the fire,

Syne draws her kebbuck an her knife;

The lasses they are shyer:

The auld guidmen, about the grace,

Frae side to side they bother:

Till some ane by his bonnet lays,

An gies them’t, like a tether,

Fu lang that day.

Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,

Or lasses that hae naething!

Sma need has he to say a grace,

Or melvie his braw claithing!

O wives, be mindfu ance yoursel

How bonie lads ye wanted;

An dinna, for a kebbuck-heel,

Let lasses be affronted

On sic a day!

Now Clinkumbell, wi rattlin tow,

Begins to jow an croon;

Some swagger hame the best they dow,

Some wait the afternoon.

At slaps the billies halt a blink,

Till lasses strip their shoon:

Wi faith an hope, an love an drink,