For what was done before them?
Let Whig and Tory a' agree,
Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory,
Whig and Tory a' agree
To drap their whigmigmorum;
Let Whig and Tory a' agree
To spend this night in mirth and glee,
And cheerfu' sing, alang wi' me,
The reel o' Tullochgorum.
O Tullochgorum's my delight;
It gars us a' in ane unite;
And ony sumph that keeps up spite,
In conscience I abhor him.
Blithe and merry we'll be a',
Blithe and merry, blithe and merry,
Blithe and merry we'll be a'
And mak' a cheerfu' quorum.
For blithe and merry we'll be a'
As lang as we ha'e breath to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa',
The reel o' Tullochgorum.
What needs there be sae great a fraise
Wi' dringin', dull Italian lays?
I wadna gi'e our ain strathspeys
For half a hunder score o' them.
They're dowf and dowie at the best,
Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie,
Dowf and dowie at the best,
Wi' a' their variorum.
They're dowf and dowie at the best,
Their allegros and a' the rest;
They canna please a Scottish taste
Compared wi' Tullochgorum.
Let worldly worms their minds oppress
Wi' fears o' want and double cess,
And sullen sots themsel's distress
Wi' keeping up decorum.
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit?
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,
Sour and sulky shall we sit,
Like auld philosophorum ?
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,
Nor ever rise to shake a fit
To the reel o' Tullochgorum?
May choicest blessings aye attend
Each honest, open-hearted friend,
And calm and quiet be his end,
And a' that's gude watch o'er him! May peace and plenty be his lot, Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, Peace and plenty be his lot,
And dainties a great store o' them! May peace and plenty be his lot, Unstained by ony vicious spot, And may he never want a groat, That's fond o' Tullochgorum!
But for the discontented fool,
Wha wants to be oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul,
And discontent devour him!
May dule and sorrow be his chance,
Dule and sorrow, dule and sorrow,
Dule and sorrow be his chance,
And nane say 'Wae's me for him!'
May dule and sorrow be his chance,
And a' the ills that come frae France,
Whae'er he be that winna dance
The reel o' Tullochgorum!
WHAN father Adie first pat spade in
The bonny yeard of antient Eden,
His amry had nae liquor laid in,
To fire his mou',
Nor did he thole his wife's upbraidin'
For being fou.
A caller burn o' siller sheen,
Ran cannily out o'er the green,
And whan our gutcher's drouth had been
To bide right sair,
He loutit down and drank bedeen
His bairns a' before the flood
Had langer tack o' flesh and blood,
And on mair pithy shanks they stood
Than Noah's line
Wha still hae been a feckless brood
Wi' drinking wine.
The fuddlin' Bardies now-a-days
Rin maukin-mad in Bacchus' praise,
And limp and stoiter thro' their lays
Anacreontic,
While each his sea of wine displays
As big's the Pontic.
My muse will no gang far frae hame,
Or scour a' airths to hound for fame;
In troth, the jillet ye might blame
For thinking on't,
Whan eithly she can find the theme
Of aqua font.
This is the name that doctors use
Their patient noddles to confuse;
Wi' simples clad in terms abstruse,
They labour still,
In kittle words to gar you roose
Their want o' skill.
But we'll hae nae sick clitter-clatter,
And briefly to expound the matter,
It shall be ca'd good Caller Water,
Than whilk, I trow,
Few drogs in doctors' shops are better
For me or you.
'Twill mak you souple, swack and young, Withouten drugs.
Tho' cholic or the heart-scad teaze us,
Or ony inward pain should seize us,
It masters a' sic fell diseases
That would ye spulzie,
And brings them to a canny crisis
Wi' little tulzie.
Wer't na for it the bonny lasses
Would glowr nae mair in keeking glasses,
And soon tine dint o' a' the graces
That aft conveen
In gleefu' looks and bonny faces,
To catch our ein.
The fairest then might die a maid,
And Cupid quit his shooting trade,
For wha thro' clarty masquerade
Could than discover,
Whether the features under shade
Were worth a lover?
As simmer rains bring simmer flow'rs
And leaves to cleed the birken bowers,
|