On the late Captain Grose’s Peregrinations by Robert Burns

HEAR, Land o’ Cakes, and brither Scots,Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat’s;⁠—If there’s a hole in a’ your coats,I rede you tent it:A chield’s amang you takin notes,And, faith, he’ll prent it:

If in your bounds ye chance to lightUpon a fine, fat fodgel wight,O’ stature short, but genius bright,That’s he, mark weel;And wow! he has an unco sleightO’ cauk and keel.

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,Or kirk deserted by its riggin,It’s ten to ane ye’ll find him snug inSome eldritch part,Wi’ deils, they say, L⁠—d save’s! colleaguinAt some black art.

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha’ or chaumer,Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamour,And you, deep-read in hell’s black grammar,Warlocks and witches,Ye’ll quake at his conjuring hammer,Ye midnight bitches.

It’s tauld he was a sodger bred,And ane wad rather fa’n than fled;But now he’s quat the spurtle-blade,And dog-skin wallet,And taen the⁠—Antiquarian trade,I think they call it.

He has a fouth o’ auld nick-nackets:Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets,Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets,A towmont gude;And parritch-pats and auld saut-backets,Before the flood.

Of Eve’s first fire he has a cinder;Auld Tubalcain’s fire-shool and fender;That which distinguished the genderO’ Balaam’s ass:A broomstick o’ the witch of Endor,Weel shod wi’ brass.

Forbye, he’ll shape you aff fu’ glegThe cut of Adam’s philibeg;The knife that nickit Abel’s craigHe’ll prove you fully,It was a faulding jocteleg,Or lang-kail gullie.

But wad ye see him in his glee,For meikle glee and fun has he,Then set him down, and twa or threeGude fellows wi’ him:And port, O port! shine thou a wee,And THEN ye’ll see him!

Now, by the Pow’rs o’ verse and prose!Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose!⁠—Whae’er o’ thee shall ill suppose,They sair misca’ thee;I’d take the rascal by the nose,Wad say, “Shame fa’ thee!”