The night before last Hallowe'en Tho’ wet as any ever seen, Must henceforth mark a date supreme In Lingwick's social lore.
As on that eve the ladies all Came forth to give their leap-year ball — And long ere ten the dancing hall Was crowded to the door.
Since Scottish heroes sang duans Upon the field of Prestonpans, So fine a gathering of the clans Was surely never seen.
And brilliant Byron's “ladies fair” Who danced in Belgium's balmy air Could never with our girls compare In beauty's realm, I ween.
Were I a Burns I'd sing their praise In grateful sympathetic lays, And tell them how a bard repays The smiles on him bestowed.
O! for a pure poetic drift, Or bard McRitchie's splendid gift, To give those charming girls a lift On chummy Hymen's road.
Since first the red man trod those lands, In happy, reckless, roving bands, Where now the town of Lingwick stands, Until the present time.
No festal scene deserved such note, Of such a scene no poet wrote, Tho’ painted with a double coat Of stirring prose or rhyme.
The lively Galson girls were there, With dancing eyes and wavy hair, And roses stamped by caller air On every blooming cheek.
And other ladies, fair and bright, Who live near by, were there that night, Contributing the keen delight Of beauty, so to speak.
Oh bachelors, how sweet to glide With such bright charmers by one's side! And ev'ry heart a surging tide Of leap-year sentiment!
You might perambulate around Until you'd hear the trumpet sound — No better quarters could be found To pitch your earthly tent.
At 12 o'clock the ladies came And took each blushing (? ) humbled swain Across the road, where Eddie's dame Had placed a royal feast.
Each charmer paid ( alas how rare! ) Her own and hungry fellow's fare, And splendid food was furnished there For o'er an hour at least.
We must congratulate each belle From mountain, vale and Fisher Hill, Who paid her leap-year tax so well Last Friday night at Gould.
Had we our wish we'd gladly call Twice yearly for a leap-year ball, For surely we were happy all The while the women ruled.
And we beseech you throw your charms Around the lonely mountain farms, Where bachelors are up in arms Against your luring spell.
Fan to a flame the sluggish smoke, Place Gibourd in a double yoke, And give friend Finlay Ian a poke To keep him hale and well.
Dear girls, keep up your enterprise And dazzle all those “bache's” eyes, Before the present leap-year dies And robs you of your rights.
Take pity on the lonely men From “Midnight” to big corner “Ken,” Or later on “it might have been” Will rob your sleep o’ nights.
The‘ legibles we'll briefly scan: There's Merchant Donald B. Buchan, Who is a dear, good-natured man, And not too old to mend;
And Layfield, too, by George! you bet, A closer friend it's hard to get — Besiege their hearts, they're both to let, And bliss will rule the end.
And finally O'Norman “Hoe”, Can Cupid's dart e'er conquer you, And penetrate your bosom through To kindle there a flame?
Shall living mortal ever see A bouncing baby on your knee Whose lisping tones will add with glee “Papa” unto your name.
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