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Robert Anderson (Роберт Андерсон)

Burgh Races

O, Wully! had tou nobbet been at Burgh Races!
It seem'd, lad, as if aw the warl were met;
Some went to be seen, others off for divarsion,
And monie went there a lock money to bet;
The cup was aw siller, and letter'd reet neycely,
A feyne naig they've put on't, forby my lword's neame;
It hods nar a quart, for monie drank out on't,
And open'd their gills till they cu'dn't creep heame.

There was, `How fens te, Tommy?'--`What Jwosep! l's gaily:
`Wey, is there ought unket i' your country seyde
`Here, landlword! a noggin!'--`Whea rides the Collector?'
`What Meason' auld meer can bang aw far and weyde!'
There wur snaps, yell, nuts, ginger--bread, shwort keakes, and brandy,
And tents full o' ham, beef, and nowble veal pye;
There was Greenup wi' a reet and true list o' the horses,
The neames o' the the awners and reyders forby.

Ere they saddl'd, the gamlers peep'd sair at the horses;
See scrudgin, the fwok were just ready to brust;
Wi' swearin and bettin they meade a sad hay--bay:
`I'll lig six to four!--`Done! cum down wi' the dust!'
`What think ye o' Lawson?'--`The field for a guinea!'
`I'll mention the winner! dare onie yen lay?'
Jwohn Blaylock' reed handkitcher wav'd at the dissnens;
At startin, he cried, `Yen, twee, three, put away!'

They went off leyke leetnin--the auld meer's a topper--
She flew like an arrow, and shew'd tem her tail;
They hugg'd, whupp'd, and spurr'd, but cud niver yence touch her--
The winners they rear'd, and the lwosers turn'd pale;
Peer Lawson gat dissen'd, and sae sud the tudders,
Furst heat was a chase, and the neist a tek--in;
Then some drank their winnins;--but, wofu' disaster,
It rain'd, and the lasses gat wet to the skin.

Leyke pez in a pot, neist at Sansfield they caper'd,
The lads did the lasses sae kittle and hug;
Young Crosset, i' fettle, had got bran new pumps on,
And brong fisher Jemmy a clink i' the lug;
The lasses they belder'd out, `Man thysel, Jemmy!'
His comrades they poud off his cwoat and his sark;
They fit, lugg'd, and lurry'd, aw owre blood and batter,
The landlword com in, and cried, `Shem o' sec wark!'

There wur smugglers, excisemen, horse--cowpers, and parsons,
Sat higglety--pigglety, aw fare a--leyke;
And mowdy--warpJacky--ay, man it was funny!--
He meade them aw laugh when he stuck in a creyke.
There were lasses frae Wigton, and Worton, and Banton--
Some o' them gat sweethearts, while others gat neane;
And bairns yet unbworn 'll oft hear o' Burgh Races,
For ne'er mun we see sec a meetin agean. 

Robert Anderson's other poems:
  1. Lines to a Redbreast
  2. Ode to Care
  3. The Happy Family
  4. Britannia’s Call
  5. Enigma the First

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