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　　On The Late Captain Grose's Peregrinations Thro' Scotland

　　Collecting The Antiquities Of That Kingdom

　　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 light

　　Upon a fine, fat fodgel wight,

　　O' stature short, but genius bright,

　　That's he, mark weel;

　　And wow! he has an unco sleight

　　O' 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 in

　　Some eldritch part,

　　Wi' deils, they say, Lord save's! colleaguin

　　At 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 gender

　　O' Balaam's ass:

　　A broomstick o' the witch of Endor,

　　Weel shod wi' brass.

　　Forbye, he'll shape you aff fu' gleg

　　The cut of Adam's philibeg;

　　The knife that nickit Abel's craig

　　He'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 three

　　Gude 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!” Poems and Songs of Robert Burns