At ae Mairtenmas Term, the grieve fae the Drum,
Tappit me an the shooder an spiert gin I'd come,
Tae wirk his first pair, for a winter half year
Wi a big cleekit horse an a relietin meer.
There wis plenty o tools an the best o a squad,
An ye wir niver pitten oot fan the widder wis bad;
There. wis a prize-takkin buul an great thumpers a kye;
An a bonnie young quine in the kitchie forbye.
Sae we newsed tae the horse, the nowt an the ploo
An he held on the drink till I gie near gat fou.
Syne efter a half dizzen glesses o rum,
Like a gowk, I feed hame tae be foreman at Drum.
Ach, I'll niver forget the first nicht at the Drum;
An losh, bit I wish that I niver hid come.
There wis hardly a bowster tae hud up ma heid,
An the snores o the loon wid hae wakkent the deid!
Noo, the baillie wis big, he'd a bed the himsel,
An it wis jist as weel, for his feet hid a smell
Like a press fu o cheese, o my sic a hum!
There wis thoosans a fleas in the chaumer at Drum.
Syne the meer wis a kicker, an files she ran aft,
An the horse wis as stiff's an aul man wi a staff,
But, losh, you should heard fu yon gaffer could bum,
That day he feed me tae gyan hame tae the Drum!
The milk it wis blue an the porridge wis thin -
Like a coord in a battle - aye willin tae rin!
An the breid wis sae teuch an the scones wis sae raa,
Man, it took near a yokin yir brakfest tae chaa!
An Babbie the skiffy, she wis brosie an big,
She'd a gleck kine a ee, an I'll sweir she'd a wig,
Her face an her hauns wir aye black as the lum;
Nae winner the lads widna fee tae the Drum.
Ach, I'll niver forget the first nicht at the Drum,
An, losh, bit I wish I niver hid come.
The grieve wis a twister, his wife nae half-come,
Ach, I'll aye rue the day I feed hame tae the Drum.
Collected from Gordon Easton, Fairmer, Tyrie, Fraserburgh.