Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE RISING OF THE SESSION, by ROBERT FERGUSSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE RISING OF THE SESSION, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: To a' men living be it kend
Last Line: Wi blythsome glee.
Alternate Author Name(s): Ferguson, Robert
Subject(s): Farm Life; Time; Writing & Writers; Agriculture; Farmers


To a' men living be it kend,
The Session now is at an end:
Writers, your finger-nebbs unbend,
And quat the pen,
Till Time wi lyart pow shall send
Blyth June again.

Tired o' the law and a' its phrases,
The wylie writers, rich as Croesus,
Hurl frae the town in hackney chaises,
For country cheer:
The powny that in spring-time grazes,
Thrives a' the year.

Ye lawyers, bid fareweel to lees,
Fareweel to din, fareweel to fees,
The canny hours o' rest may please
Instead o' siller:
Hain'd multer hads the mill at ease,
And finds the miller.

Blyth they may be wha wanton play
In Fortune's bonny blinkin ray,
Fu weel can they ding dool away
Wi comrades couthy,
And never dree a hungert day,
Or e'ening drouthy.

Ohon the day for him that's laid
In dowie poortith's caldrife shade,
Ablins owr honest for his trade,
He racks his wits,
How he may get his bouk weel clad,
And fill his guts.

The farmer's sons, as yap as sparrows,
Are glad, I trou, to flee the barras,
And whistle to the plough and harrows
At barley seed:
What writer wadna gang as far as
He could for breid?

After their yokin, I wat weel
They'll stoo the kebbuck to the heel;
Eith can the plough-stilts gar a chiel
Be unco vogie,
Clean to lick aff his crowdy-meal,
And scart his cogie.

Now mony a fallow's dung adrift
To a' the blasts beneath the lift,
And tho' their stamack's aft in tift
In vacance time,
Yet seenil do they ken the rift
O' stappit weym.

Now gin a notar should be wanted,
You'll find the pillars gayly planted;
For little thing protests are granted
Upo' a bill,
And weightiest matters covenanted
For haf a gill.

Nae body taks a morning dribb
O' Holland gin frae Robin Gibb;
And tho' a dram to Rob's mair sib
Than is his wife,
He maun take time to daut his Rib
Till siller's rife.

This vacance is a heavy doom
On Indian Peter's coffee-room,
For a' his china pigs are toom;
Nor do we see
In wine the sucker biskets soum
As light's a flee.

But stop, my Muse, nor make a mane,
Pate disna fend on that alane;
He can fell twa dogs wi ae bane,
While ither fock
Maun rest themsels content wi ane,
Nor farrer trock.

Ye change-house keepers never grumble,
Tho' you a while your bickers whumble;
Be unco patientfu and humble,
Nor make a din,
Tho' gude joot binna kend to rumble
Your weym within.

You needna grudge to draw your breath
For little mair than haf a reath,
Than, gin we a' be spar'd frae death,
We'll gladly prie
Fresh noggans o' your reaming graith
Wi blythsome glee.





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