A LEAP-YEAR BALL AT LINGWICK

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.