The Book of Scottish Song/The Drygate Brig

The Drygate Brig.

[Alexander Rodger.—Air, "The Cameronian Rant."—The Drygate Brig is a small bridge in the north-east and most ancient district of the city of Glasgow, which over-arches the far-famed Molendinar burn.]

Last Monday night, at sax o'clock,
To Mirran Gibb's I went, man,
To snuff, an' crack, an' toom the cap,
It was my hale intent, man:
So down I sat an' pried the yill,
Syne luggit out my sneeshin mill,
An' took a pinch wi' right good will,
O' beggar's brown, (the best in town,)
Then sent it roun' about the room,
To gi'e ilk ane a scent, man.

The sneeshin' mill, the cap gaed round,
The joke, the crack an' a', man,
'Bout markets, trade and daily news,
To wear the time awa', man;
Ye never saw a blither set,
O' queer auld-feshion'd bodies met,
For fient a grain o' pride nor pet,
Nor eating care gat footing there,
But friendship rare, aye found sincere,
An' hearts without a flaw, man.

To cringing courtiers, kings may blaw,
How rich they are an' great, man,
But kings could match na us at a',
Wi' a' their regal state, man;
For Mirran's swats, sae brisk and fell,
An' Turner's snuff, sae sharp an' snell,
Made ilk ane quite forget himsel',
Made young the auld, inflamed the cauld,
And fired the saul wi' projects bauld,
That daur'd the power o' fate, man.

But what are a' sic mighty schemes,
When ance the spell is broke, man?
A set o' maut-inspired whims,
That end in perfect smoke, man.
An' what like some disaster keen,
Can chase the glamour frae our een,
An' bring us to oursel's again?
As was the fate o' my auld pate,
When that night late, I took the gate,
As crouse as ony cock, man.

For, sad misluck! without my hat,
I doiting cam' awa', man,
An' when I down the Drygate cam',
The win' began to blaw, man.
When I cam' to the Drygate Brig,
The win' blew aff my guid brown wig,
That whirled like ony whirligig,
As up it flew, out o' my view,
While I stood glowrin', waefu' blue,
Wi' wide extended jaw, man.

When I began to grape for't syne,
Thrang poutrin' wi' my staff, man,
I coupet owre a meikle stane,
An' skailed my pickle snuff, man
My staff out o' my hand did jump,
An' hit my snout a dreadfu' thump,
Whilk raised a most confounded lump,
But whar it flew, I never knew,
Yet sair I rue this mark sae blue,
It leuks sae fleesome waff, man.

O had you seen my waefu' plight,
Your mirth had been but sma', man,
An' yet, a queerer antic sight,
I trow ye never saw, man.
I've lived thir fifty years an' mair,
But solemnly I here declare,
I ne'er before met loss sae sair;
My wig flew aff, I tint my staff,
I skail'd my snuff, I peel'd my loof,
An' brak my snout an' a', man.

Now wad ye profit by my loss?
Then tak' advice frae me, man,
An' ne'er let common sense tak' wing,
On fumes o' barley bree, man;
For drink can heeze a man sae high,
As mak' his head 'maist touch the sky,
But down he tumbles by-an'-by,
Wi' sic a thud, 'mang stanes an' mud,
That aft it's guid, if dirt an' bluid
Be a' he has to dree, man.

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