Classic Poem

Of Isthmean and Olympian games,
Let ancient rheymers sing,
Their wrustlers and their boxers neames,
In noisy numbers sing;
Or Egypt when the annual Nile,
Its common bounds owr ran,
Sec auld far'd claver's not worth wheyle,
Fwoaks leyke o' us to scan,
I'th' prizzent day.

Twea thousand years are owr an' mair,
Sen a' this nonsense vanish'd,
An' to the de'il by christian care,
Their pagan pliskits banish'd;
Wheylst modern teymes by change refeyn'd,
For wisdom mair reputed,
For spworts t' oblivion lang conseyn'd,
Hev merrier instituted,
In latter days.

For what avail'd their ramish routs,
Wi' Sampson leyke exertions,
Their broken nappers, seylan snouts,
Cud thar be ca'd devarshions?
Not Athens, tho' for sense renown'd,
Nor Thebes cud ere compare,
For pasteymes sec as may be found,
Each year at Rosley fair,
O'th' second day.

Here mirth and merchandice are mix'd,
There love with tumult rages,
Here fraud an' ignorance are fix'd,
And sense with craft engages;
Sly villainy hauds out her han',
Your pocket nuoks to reyfle,
An' clouds are rais'd o' stour an' san',
Eneugh auld Nick to steyfle,
O'th' hill this day.

See frae a' quarters east and west,
I' drwoves th' country coman,
Wheyle flocks o' naigs an' kye are press'd,
By flocks o' men an' woman;
Buss'd i' their best, the blythesome troop,
Bang forrat helter skelter,
Wheyle monny mang the mingl'd group,
O'th' geat war fit to swelter,
Wi' heat that day.

Here pedlars frae a' pairts repair,
Beath Yorkshire beytes and Scotch fwoak,
An' paddy's wi' their feyne lin' ware,
Tho' a' deseyn'd to botch fwoak;
Cheat 'at cheat can 's the common rule,
Fwoaks a' cheat yen anither,
For he 'at's nowther kneave or fuol,
Godseake what brought him hither,
To th' fair this day.

See mounted on an auld grey meare,
Led forth in pompous preyde,
Auld Baxter fidlin' thro' the fair,
Wi' th' bealifs by his seyde:
This is as mickle as to say,
The treyst is fairly started,
Now you may up an' cheat away,
For nea man shall be thwarted,
'Ats here this day.

Now for a brek, 'od seake stan' clear,
Nor luok for future evils,
A' Bewcastle's broken lowse, see there,
They're ga'n leyke stark mad deevils;
Wi' whup and spur they rive away,
A' drive down a' befwore them,
An' heaps on heaps are whurl'd away,
Or leam'd, the vengeance rwoar them,
For brutes this day.

Here ample rows o' tents are stretch'd,
The gurse green common bigg'd on,
An' baggin reddy cuok'd is fetch'd,
Frae Peerith, Carle, an' Wigton;
Wi' rowth o' spirits, weynes, an' yell,
In bottles and in barrels,
That will ere neeght if reeght's my teale,
Ferment a power o' quarrels,
An' streyfe this day.

See Sawney wi' his auld din'd yad,
Just cum'd frae Ecclefechan,
Gallin the gimmer wi' a gad,
Tho' leyke a porpoise peighan;
He warrant's her soun' win' a' lim',
As onny o' the hill,
Tho' feint a yen wad creedit him,
That's owther seeght or skill,
A word that day.

Patrick o'Flagan wi' his cloth,
Comes on amang the rest,
And tells his dealers with an oath,
'Tis better than the best;
This yard which cost me half-a-crown,
For eighteen-pence I offer,
By Jasus man, I'm quite torn down,
Which for me to proffer
So cheap to-day.

Here's Yorkshire impudence d'ye see,
Advancin' for a brek,
Just as'in' threyce as much as he,
Kens he'll consent to tek;
Here maister, buy a coit cloith here,
Ye's have it chep beleive me,
'Tis of the foinest ool I swear,
Mon think ye I'd deceive ye,
Not I this day.

Luok whar i'th' nuok o' yonder tent,
Yon crew are slyly smugglin',
I warrant ye now thar gang are bent,
To tek fwoak in by jugglin:
Some cut purse dow-for-noughts nea doubt,
That deevilments hev skill in,
An' some 'at com weel leadin' out,
May gang widout a shillin',
Off heame this day.

Whisht, what's yon noise amang yon crowd,
Yon rantin' and huzzain',
Whar trumpets skirl an' drums beat loud,
An' organs sweet are playin';
Here walk in gentlemen and see,
Exclaims a hobthrust fellow,
The King and Royal family,
Auld Nick and Punchenello
In style this day.

Here's Eagle, Ostrich, and Macaw,
Wi' the fam'd Hore o' Knowledge,
Who more sagacity can shew,
Than twenty fools from College;
A thousand tricks by cards he'll tell,
Each one esteem'd a wonder,
And all the pack he knows so well,
I never knew him blunder,
By night or day.

See the huge Elephant advance,
Of men he'd carry tharty,
A thousand leyke him sent to France,
Would crush proud Bonaparty.
Here's the fierce Tyger from Bengal,
Th' Oppossum from Savannah,
The Royal Lion and Jackall,
The Lynx and fierce Hyena,
Alive this day.

Do walk in gentlemen walk in,
The price is only threepence,
We're just a going to begin,
You two step in for fi'pence;
You ne'er have seen in all your days,
So fine a shew as this is,
Go where we will it gains the praise,
Of Gentleman and Misses
On every day.

Come Jwhon I think we'll shift our stan',
An' see what's yonder bawlin',
Winge lad its a quack doctor man,
His drugs and nostrums callin';
Here are the pills that cure all ills,
An' sleype off ev'ry evil,
The cramp, the stich, the pox, the itch,
Nay that wad kill the deevil,
If here to day.

See hurdum durdum, dust an' din,
Wi' shewman an' physician,
Yen'd think that they meeght Babel fin',
Class'd for a new edition;
The noise o' boxers an' o' bulls,
O' drums an' dibblers jinglin',
O' cauves an' carles wi' clatter'd skulls,
Are leyke confusion minglin'
Reeght loud this day.

But let us step into th' Camp House,
An' see their dancin' sprees,
There we may cruok our hams an' bouse
A wee bit at our ease;
There we our various cracks may ha'd,
On ilka thing 'at passes,
An' watch the water castin' lad,
O' some our bonny lasses,
Unseen this day.

Wi' merry lilts the fidler's chang,
The lads and lasses bicker,
The drink o' acid teasts sea strang,
'Twad mek an auld naig nicker;
Some sit an' rub their shins reeght sad,
Full sair wi' sindry knocks,
Ithers wi' kevlin' hey go mad,
Sweat leyke as monny brocks,
I'th' room this day.

Here lan'leady some mair shwort ceaks,
An' meng us up thar glasses,
Fidlers screw up your strings for faiks,
We'll lilt up Sowerby lasses;
An hey for our town lads, stan' back,
An' let's hev room to rally,
We'll thump away till a' be black,
Weel fidg'd my sonsy Sally.
Thou's meyne this day.

Here a' seems happiness throughout,
Lang be your plizzers lastin',
The punch and cyder laves about,
An' few are here black fastin';
Ilk lad now hugs the lass he leykes,
Wheyle some hev hauf a dizzen,
Unless some wreen ill natur'd teykes,
'At car'nt if th' lasses wizzen,
At th' fair this day.

But we'll agean our matty shift,
An' stroll about together,
We'll not give ya pleace a' our gift,
An' ham nought for a nither;
A thousand farlies yet unseen,
We'll fin' at diff'rent pleaces,
I' cwores o' tents we'hev'nt been,
Nor seen hauf th' bonny feaces,
Are here this day.

Let's tek a scwover thro' th' horse fair,
An' hear some coupar jargon,
We'll see them cheat an' lythe them lee,
Owr monny a gallows bargain,
For Bewcastle aye bears the bell,
For jobbers, scamps, and dealers,
And low be't spoken some fwoaks tell,
They erst hev been horse stealer's,
In there away.

Luok, leyke mad bulls they bang about,
Wi' shouts their thropples rivan,
Wheyle whup for smack the rabble rout,
Are yen owr tother drivan;
Perdition seems to mark their gaite,
Wi' rage and wilfu' murder,
Some seafer bit, we'll try to laite,
An' pauk on rather further,
Frae skaith this day.

Wheyte roun' the hill we'll tak a range,
An' view whatever passes,
The varying objects as they change,
Feyne wares and bonny lasses;
If e'er variety can please,
What pleace is there in nature,
Where't can be fund wi' greater ease,
Or where it can be greater,
Than here to-day.

Wi' monny mair see Meggy Houpe,
Wi' her bit sarkin' linen,
'At keep'd her feckly thro' th' how doup,
Wate weel reeght constant spinnin';
Thro' monny a lang cauld winter neeght,
I'th' nuok as she sat drillin'
Her pund leyne gairn an' now she's reeght,
If it bring forty shillin',
This Rosley day.

Here's baby laikins, rowth o' speyce,
On sta's an' ra's extended,
Wi' nibelties as guode as neyce,
In strange confusion blended;
Wi' bozlam wares, shoon scwores o' pairs,
An' whillimere's rare cheeses,
Clogs splinter new, bass bottom'd chairs,
An' lea stanes for new leases,
I' heaps this day.

See swingin' owr the foggy swaird,
Begrac'd wi' angel features,
Wi' bra's weel buskit rig'd and squar'd,
A wheen deleytefu' creatures;
But o' beware the fause feac'd fair,
That seek but your undoing,
Thar blythsome blenks are but t' ensnare,
An' tempt to certain ruin,
Puor gowks this day.

Ye heedless hauflins that mayhap
To fa' into their clutches,
Tent ye, or you may nurse a clap,
For a' their gaudy mutches;
An' sud ye aeblins be sea daft,
Ye'd luok but silly slouches,
Wi' not a plack o' kilter left,
But heame wi' empty pouches,
To slounge this day.

Hark, where th' inveytin' drum o' mars,
Athwart the fair loud rattles,
It minds me aye o' wounds an' scars,
O' bruolliments an' battles;
But sarjin Keyte wad fain persuade,
Its but the call of honour,
Where certain fortune shall be made,
By those who wait upon her,
Off han' this day.

I leyke the king, I leyke the state,
The kurk and contitution,
An' on their foes baith soon and late,
Wish downfa' an' confusion;
But may nea frien' o' mine by cheats,
Turn out that maizlin ninny,
To barter a' a Briton's reeghts,
For nonsense an' a guinea,
Wi' Keyte this day.

But here's a row worth a' the rest,
Come we'll attend this tuoly,
I faith we've fund a famous nest,
'At mek a battlin' bruely,
Here crazy, lazy, blin', an' leame,
Engage for general trial,
An' heevy skeevy, fire an' flame,
They yoke in battle royal,
Pell mell this day.

A sodger wid a wooden leg,
A keyn'd o' snafflin' noddy,
Had beg'd a bure her neame was Meg,
A winsome weel far'd body;
A darky glaum'd her by the hips,
The sowdger band leyke thunder,
But still the blin' man held his grip,
As tho' he ne'er wad sunder,
Frae her that day.

Then up ruose Caesar in a wrath,
An' sweyan owr his crutches,
Swear he wad lib the fidler's graith,
If he com in his clutches;
But his inconstant marrow Meg,
As for a bang he bummel'd,
Lows'd in a treyce his timmer leg,
An' down the warrior tumel'd,
Lang streek'd that day.

Now sprawlin' on the brade o's back,
Wi' rage the vetran ranted,
An' roun' laid monny a loundrin' whack,
But aye effect they wanted;
For as they keep'd ayond his reach,
His bats fell fause not fairly,
Wheylst they kept batt'ring him en breach,
Which vext the wight reeght sairly,
Wate weel that day.

Roun' on his bum, his central bit,
As on a pivot wheeling,
The hero whurl'd him wi' his fit,
Fast roun' his duibs aye dealing;
At length owrwhelm'd wi' filth and sods,
Frae thar ferocious tartars,
He sank beneath superior odds,
An' grean'd aloud for quarters,
An' leyfe this day.

Now a' seems outrage owr the hill,
Dread conflict an' confusion,
The watch word's blown, be kill'd or kill,
The day's wark's near conclusion;
We'd best be fettlin' off wi' speed,
Wheyle we've hale beanes for carrying,
For fear some hawbuck tek't i' his heade,
To brake us weel for tarrying,
Sea lang this day.