Corpus of Modern Scots Poetry - Public Domain works

The current year is 2025

The Works of Robert Fergusson
Fergusson, Robert
Published 1774

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF MR. DAVID GREGORY,
LATE PROFESSOR OF MATHEMATICS IN THE UNIVERSITY OF ST. ANDREWS.
[Died 13th April, 1765]

Now mourn, ye college masters a' !
And frae your ein a tear lat fa',
Fam'd Gregory death has taen awa' Without remeid
The skaith ye've met wi's nae that sma', Sin Gregory's dead.

The students too will miss him sair,
To school them weel his eident care,
Now they may mourn for ever mair, They hae great need
They'll hip the maist fek o' their lear, Sin Gregory's dead.

He could, by Euclid, prove lang syne
A ganging point compos'd a line
By numbers too he cou'd divine, Whan he did read,
That three times three just made up nim ; But now he's dead.

In algebra weel skill'd he was, A
n' kent fu' weel proportion's laws
He cou'd make clear baith B's and A's Wi' his lang head
Rin owr surd roots, but cracks or flaws But now he's dead.

Weel vers'd was he in architecture,
An' kent the nature o' the sector,
Upon baith globes he weel cou'd lecture, An' gar's tak heid
Of geometry he was the hector But now he's dead.

Sae weel's he'd fley the students a',
Whan they war skelpin' at the ba',
They took leg bail and ran awa', Wi' pith and speid
We winna get a sport sae braw Sin Gregory's dead.

Great 'casion hae we a' to weep,
An' deed our skins in mourning deep,
For Gregory death will fairly keep To take his nap ;
He'll till the resurrection sleep As sound's a tap.


THE DAFT DAYS.

Now mirk December's dowie face
Glowrs owr the rigs wi' sour grimace,
While, thro' his minimum of space, The bleer-ey'd sun,
Wi' blinkin' light and stealing pace, His race doth run.

From naked groves nae birdie sings ;
To shepherd's pipe" nae hillock rings ;
The breeze nae od'rous flavour brings From Borean cave ;
And dwyning Nature droops her wings, Wi' visage grave.

Mankind but scanty pleasure glean
Frae snawy hill or barren plain,
Whan Winter, 'midst his nipping train, Wi' frozen spear,
Sends drift owr a' his bleak domain, And guides the weir.

Auld Reikie ! thou'rt the canty hole,
A bield for mony a caldrife soul,
Wha snugly at thine ingle loll, Baith warm and couth ;
While round they gar the bicker roll To weet their mouth.
s
When merry Yule-day comes, I trow,
You'll scantlins find a hungry mou ;
Sma' are our cares, our stamacks fou o' gusty gear,
And kickshaws, strangers to our view, Sin' fairn-year.

Ye browster wives ! now busk ye bra,
And fling your sorrows far awa' ;
Then, come and gie's the tither blaw o' reaming ale,
Mair precious than the Well of Spa, Our hearts to heal.

Then, tho' at odds wi'a' the warl',
 Amang oursells we'll never quarrel
Tho' Discord gie a canker'd snarl To spoil our glee,
As lang's there's pith into the barrel We'll drink and 'gree.

Fiddlers! your pins in temper fix,
And roset weel your fiddlesticks,
But banish vile Italian tricks From out your quorum,
Nor fortes wi' pianos mix Gie's Tullochgorum.

For nought can cheer the heart sae weel
As can a canty Highland reel
It even vivifies the heel To skip and dance :
Lifeless is he wha canna feel Its influence.

Let mirth abound ; let social cheer
Invest the dawning of the year ;
Let blithesome innocence appear To crown our joy ;
Nor envy, wi' sarcastic sneer, Our bliss destroy.

And thou, great god of aqua vitae
Wha sways the empire of this city
When fou we're sometimes capernoity Be thou prepar'd
To hedge us frae that black banditti, The City Guard.



ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF SCOTS MUSIC.

ON Scotia's plains, in days of yore,
When lads and lasses tartan wore,
Saft Music rang on ilka shore, In hamely weid ;
But Harmony is now no more, And Music dead.

Round her the feather'd choir would wing,
Sae bonnily she wont to sing,
And sleely wake the sleeping string, Their sang to lead,
Sweet as the zephyrs of the spring ; But now she's dead.

Mourn ilka nymph and ilka swain,
Ilk sunny hill and dowie glen ;
Let weeping streams and Naiads drain Their fountain head ;
Let echo swell the dolefu' strain, Since Music's dead.

Whan the saft vernal breezes ca'
The grey-hair'd Winter's fogs awa',
Naebody then is heard to blaw, Near hill or mead,
On chaunter or on aiten straw, Since Music's dead.

Nae lasses now, on simmer days,
Will lilt at bleaching of their claes ;
Nae herds on Yarrow's bonny braes, Or banks of Tweed,
Delight to chant their hameil lays, Since Music's dead.

At glomin', now, the bagpipe's dumb,
Whan weary owsen hameward come ;
Sae sweetly as it wont to bum, And pibrachs skreed ;
We never hear its warlike hum, For Music's dead.

Macgibbon's gane : Ah ! waes my heart !
The man in music maist expert,
Wha cou'd sweet melody impart, And tune the reed,
Wi' sic a slee and pawky art ; But now he's dead.

Ilk carline now may grunt and grane,
Ilk bonny lassie make great mane ;
Since he's awa', I trow there's nane Can fill his stead ;
The blythest sangster on the plain ! Alake, he's dead

Now foreign sonnets bear the gree,
And crabbit queer variety
Of sounds fresh sprung frae Italy, A bastard breed !
Unlike that saft-tongu'd melody Which now lies dead.

Can lav'rocks at the dawning day,
Can linties chirming frae the spray,
Or todling burns that smoothly play O'er gowden bed,
Compare wi' Birks of Indermay ? But now they're dead.

Scotland ! that cou'd yence afford
To bang the pith of Roman sword,
Winna your sons, wi' joint accord, To battle speed,
And fight till Music be restor'd, Which now lies dead ?

THE KING'S BIRTH-DAY IN EDINBURGH

I sing the day sae aften sung,
Wi' which our lugs hae yearly rung,
In whase loud praise the Muse has dung A' kind o' print
But wow ! the limmer's fairly flung There's naething in't

I'm fain to think the joys the same
In London town as here at hame,
Whare folk of ilka age and name, Baith blind and cripple,
Forgather aft, fy for shame To drink and tipple.

Muse, be kind, and dinna fash us,
To flee awa' beyont Parnassus,
Nor seek for Helicon to wash us, That heath'nish spring;
Wi' Highland whisky scour our hawses, And gar us sing.

Begin then, dame, ye've drunk your fill,
You wouldna hae the tither gill
You'll trust me, mair would do you ill, And ding you doitet;
Troth 'twould be sair agains my will To hae the wyte o't.

Sing then, how, on the fourth of June,
Our bells screed aff a loyal tune,
Our antient castle shoots at noon, Wi' flag-staff buskit,
Frae which the soldier blades come down To cock their musket.

Oh willawins, Mons Meg ! for you,
'Twas firing crack'd thy muckle mou'
What black mishantar gart ye spew Baith gut and ga'?
I fear they bang'd thy belly fu' Against the law.

Right seldom am I gi'en to bannin,
But, by my saul, ye was a cannon,
Cou'd hit a man had he been stauning In shire o' Fife,
Sax lang Scots miles ayont Clackmanan, And tak' his life.

The hills in terror wou'd cry out,
And echo to thy dinsome rout
The herds wou'd gather in their nowt, That glowr'd wi' wonder,
Haflins afraid to bide thereout To hear thy thunder.

Sing likewise, Muse, how blue-gown bodies,
Like scar-craws new ta'en down frae woodies,
Come here to cast their clouted duddies, And get their pay :
Than them, what magistrate mair proud is On king's birth-day ?

On this great day, the city-guard,
In military art well lear'd,
Wi' powder'd pow, and shaven beard, Gang thro' their functions,
By hostile rabble seldom spar'd Of clarty unctions.

O soldiers ! for your ain dear sakes,
For Scotland's, alias Land of Cakes,
Gie not her bairns sic deadly pakes, Nor be sae rude,
Wi' firelock or Lochaber aix, As spill their blude.

Now round and round the serpents whiz,
Wi' hissing wrath and angry phiz ;
Sometimes they catch a gentle gizz, Alake the day ! And singe,
wi' hair-devouring bizz, Its curls away.

Shou'd th' owner patiently keek round,
To view the nature of his wound,
Dead pussie, dragled thro' the pond, Takes him a lounder,
Which lays his honour on the ground As flat's a flounder.

The Muse maun also now implore
Auld wives to steek ilk hole and bore ;
If baudrins slip but to the door, I fear, I fear,
She'll no lang shank upon all-four This time o' year.

Next day each hero tells his news
O' crackit crowns and broken brows,
And deeds that here forbid the Muse Her theme to swell,
Or time mair precious [to] abuse Their crimes to tell.

She'll rather to the fields resort,
Whare music gars the day seem short,
Whare doggies play, and lambies sport On gowany braes,
Whare peerless Fancy hads her court, And tunes her lays.


CALLER OYSTERS

Of a' the waters that can hobble
A fishin' yole or salmon coble,
And can reward the fisher's trouble, Or south or north,
There's nane sae spacious and sae noble As Firth o' Forth.

In her the skate and codlin sail,
The eil fou souple wags her tail,
Wi' herrin, flouk, and makarel, And whitens dainty ;
Their spindle-shanks the labsters trail Wi' partans plenty.

Auld Reikie's sons blyth faces wear ;
September's merry month is near,
That brings in Neptune's caller cheer, New oysters fresh ;
The halesomest and nicest gear Of fish or flesh.

O! then we needna gi'e a plack
For dand'ring mountebank or quack,
Wha o' their drogs sae bauldly crack, And spread sic notions,
As gar their feckless patients tak Their stinkin potions.

Come prie, frail man ! for gin thou art sick,
The oyster is a rare cathartic
As ever doctor patient gart lick To cure his ails
Whether you hae the head or heart ake, It ay prevails.

Ye tiplers, open a' your poses,
Ye wha are faush'd wi' plouky noses,
Fling owr your craig sufficient doses, You'll thole a hunder,
To fleg awa your simmer roses, And naithing under.

Whan big as burns the gutters rin,
Grin ye hae catcht a droukit skin,
To Luckie Middlemist's loup in, And sit fu' snug
O'er oysters and a dram o' gin, Or haddock lug.

When auld Saunt Giles, at aught o'clock,
Gars merchant louns their shopies lock,
There we adjourn wi' hearty fock To birle our bodies,
And get wharewi' to crack our joke, And clear our noddles.

Whan Phoebus did his windocks steek,
How aften at that ingle cheek
Did I my frosty fingers beek, And taste gude fare
I trow there was nae hame to seek Whan steghin there.

While glakit fools, o'er rife o' cash,
Pamper their weyms wi' fousom trash,
I think a chiel may gayly pass, He's no ill boden
That gusts his gabb wi' oyster sauce, And hen weel soden.

At Musselbrough, and eke Newheven,
The fisher wives will get top livin,
When lads gang out on Sunday's even To treat their joes,
And tak' o' fat pandours a prieven, Or mussel brose

Then sometimes ere they flit their doup,
They'll ablins a' their siller coup
For liquor clear frae cutty stoup, To weet their wizen,
And swallow o'er a dainty soup, For fear they gizzen.

A' ye wha canna stand sae sicker,
Whan twice you've toom'd the big-ars'd bicker,
Mix caller oysters wi' your liquor, And I'm your debtor,
If greedy priest or drouthy vicar Will thole it better.


TO MR. ROBERT FERGUSSON.
Is Allan risen frae the deid,
Wha aft has tun'd the aiten reed,
And by the muses was decreed To grace the thistle ?
Na ; Fergusson's come in his stead To blaw the whistle,

In troth, my callant, I'm sae fain
To see your sonsy, canty strain,
You write sic easy stile and plain, And words sae bonny,
Nae suth'ron lown dare you disdain, Or cry fy on ye
!
Whae'er has at Auld Reikie been,
And king's birth-days exploits has seen,
Maun own that ye hae gi'en a keen And true description ;
Nor say ye've at Parnassus been To form a fiction.

Hale be your heart, ye canty chield !
May ye ne'er want a gude warm beild,
And sic gude cakes as Scotland yields, And ilka dainty
That grows or feeds upon her fields ;
And whisky plenty.

But ye, perhaps, thirst mair for fame
Than a' the gude things I can name,
And then ye will be sair to blame My gude intention ;
For that ye needna gae frae hame, Ye've sic pretension.

Sae saft and sweet your verses jingle,
And your auld words sae meetly mingle,
'Twill gar baith married fouk and single To roose your lays
Whan we forgather round the ingle, We'll chant your praise.

Whan I again Auld Reikie see,
And can forgather, lad, with thee,
Than we wi' muckle mirth and glee Shall tak' a gill,
And o' your caller oysters we Shall eat our fill.

If sic a thing shou'd you betide,
To Berwick town to tak a ride,
I'se tak ye up Tweed's bonnie side Before ye settle,
 And shew you there the fisher's pride, A Sa'mon-kettle.

There lads an' lasses do conveen
To feast an' dance upo' the green,
An' there sick brav'ry may be seen As will confound ye,
An' gar ye glowr out baith your een At a' around ye.

To see sae mony bosoms bare,
An' sic huge puddins i' their hair,
An' some of them wi' naithing mair Upo' their tete
Yea, some wi' mutches that might scar Craws frae their meat.

I ne'er appear'd before in print,
But for your sake wou'd fain be in't,
E'en that I might my wishes hint That you'd write mair ;
For sure your head-piece is a mint Whar wit's nae rare.

Sonse fa' me, gif I hadna 'lure
I cou'd command ilk muse as sure,
Than hae a charot at the door To wait upo' me
Tho', poet-like, I'm but a poor Mid-Louthian Johnnie.


ANSWER TO MR. J. S.'s EPISTLE.
I trow, my mettl'd Louden lathie,
Auld farran birky I maun ca' thee,
For whan in gude black print I saw thee Wi' souple gab,
I skirl'd fou loud, " Oh wae befa' thee " But thou'rt a daub."

Awa', ye wylie fleetchin fallow
The rose shall grow like gowan yallow,
Before I turn sae toom and shallow, And void of fushion,
As a' your butter'd words to swallow In vain delusion.

Ye mak my Muse a dautit pet,
But gin she cou'd like Allan's met,
Or couthie crack and hamely get Upo' her carritch,
Eithly wad I be in your debt A pint o' parritch.

At times whan she may lowse her pack,
I'll grant that she can find a knack,
To gar auld-warld wordies clack In hamespun rhime,
While ilk ane at his billie's back Keeps gude Scots time.

But she maun e'en be glad to jook,
And play teet-bo frae nook to nook,
Or blush as gin she had the yook Upo' her skin,
Whan Ramsay or whan Pennicuik Their lilts begin.

At morning ear, or late at e'en,
Gin ye sud hap to come and see ane,
Nor niggard wife, nor greetin wee ane, Within my cloyster,
Can challenge you and me frae preein' A caller oyster.

Heh lad ! it wou'd be news indeed,
War I to ride to bonny Tweed,
Wha ne'er laid gamon o'er a steed Beyont Lusterrick
And auld shanks nag 4 wou'd tire, I dread, To pace to Berwick.

You crack weel o' your lasses there,
Their glancin' een and bisket bare
But thof this town be smeekit sair, I'll wad a farden,
Than ours they're nane mair fat and fair, Cravin your pardon.

Grin heaven shou'd gie the earth a drink,
And afterhend a sunny blink,
Gin ye war here, I'm sure you'd think It worth your notice,
To see them dubbs and gutters jink Wi' kiltit coaties.

And frae ilk corner o' the nation,
We've lasses eke of recreation,
That at close-mou's tak' up their station By ten o'clock.
The Lord deliver frae temptation A' honest fock !

Thir queans are ay upo' the catch
For pursie, pocket-book, or watch,
And can sae glibb their leesins hatch, That you'll agree,
Ye canna eithly meet their match 'Tween you and me.

For this gude sample o' your skill,
I'm restin you a pint o' yale,
By and attour a Highland gill Of aquavitae
The which to come and sock at will, I here invite ye.

Tho' jillet Fortune scoul and quarrel,
And keep me frae a bien beef barrel,
As lang's I've two-pence i' the warl', I'll ay be vockie
To part a fadge or girdle farl Wi' Louthian Jockie.

Farewell, my cock ! Lang may you thrive,
Weel happit in a cozy hive ;
And that your soul may never dive To Acheron,
I'll wish as lang's I can subscrive Rob. Fergusson.


BRAID CLAITH

Ye wha are fain to hae your name
Wrote in the bonny book of fame,
Let merit nae pretension claim To laurel'd wreath,
But hap ye weel, baith back and wame, In gude Braid Claith.

He that some ells o' this may fa',
An' slae black hat on pow like snaw,
Bids bauld to bear the gree awa', Wi' a' this graith,
Whan bienly clad wi' shell fu' braw O' gude Braid Claith.

Waesuck for him wha has nae fek o't
For he's a gowk they're sure to geek at,
A chield that ne'er will be respekit While he draws breath,
Till his four quarters are bedeckit Wi' gude Braid Claith.

On Sabbath-days the barber spark,
Whan he has done wi' scrapin wark
Wi' siller broachie in his sark, Gangs trigly, faith
Or to the Meadows L or the Park, In gude Braid Claith.

Weel might ye trow, to see them there,
That they to shave your haffits bare,
Or curl an' sleek a pickle hair, Wud be right laith,
Whan pacing wi' a gawsy air In gude Braid Claith.

If ony mettled stirrah grien
For favour frae a lady's ein,
He mauna care for being seen Before be sheath
His body in a scabbard clean O' gude Braid Claith.

For, gin he come wi' coat threed-bare,
A feg for him she winna care,
Bat crook her bony mou' fu' sair, An' scald him baith.
Wooers shou'd ay their travel spare Without Braid Claith.

Braid Claith lends fouk an unco heese,
Makes mony kail-worms butter-flees,
Gies mony a doctor his degrees For little skaith
In short, you may be what you please Wi' gude Braid Claith.

For thof ye had as wise a snout on,
As Shakespeare or Sir Isaac Newton,
Your judgment fouk wud hae a doubt on, I'll tak' my aith,
Till they cou'd see ye wi' a suit on O' gude Braid Claith.

AN ECLOGUE
TO THE MEMORY OF DR. WILLIAM WILKIE,
LATE PROFESSOR OF NATURAL PHILOSOPHY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF ST. ANDREWS.
Born 5th October 1721.—Died 10th October 1772.

GEORDIE AND DAVIE.
GEORDIE

Blaw saft, my reed, and kindly to my maen,
Weel may ye thole a saft and dowie strain
Nae mair to you shall shepherds in a ring,
Wi' blythness skip, or lasses lilt an' sing ;
Sic sorrow now maun sadden ilka eie,
An' ilka waefu' shepherd grieve wi' me.

DAVIE
Wharefor begin a sad an' dowie strain,
Or banish lilting frae the Fifan plain ?
Tho' simmer's gane, an' we nae langer view
The blades o' claver wat wi' pearls o' dew,
Cauld winter's blackest blast we'll eithly cowr,
Our eldin's driven, an' our har'st is owr
Our rucks fu' thick are stackit i' the yard,
For the Yule feast a sautit mart's prepar'd

The ingle-nook supplies the simmer fields,
An' aft as mony gleefu' moments yields.
Swyth man ! fling a' your sleepy springs awa',
An' on your canty whistle gie's a blaw
Blythness, I trow, maun lighten ilka eie,
An' ilka canty callant sing like me.

GEORDIE
Na, na ; a canty spring wad now impart
Just threefald sorrow to my heavy heart.
Thof to the weet my ripen'd aits had fawn,
Or shakewinds owr my riggs wi' pith had blawn,
To this I cou'd hae said, " I carena by,"
Nor fund occasion now my cheeks to dry.
Crosses like thae, or lake o' warld's gear,
Are naething whan we tyne a friend that's dear.
Ah ! waes me for you, Willy ! mony a day
Did I wi' you, on yon broom-thackit brae,
Hound aff my sheep, an' lat them careless gang
To harken to your cheery tale or sang
Sangs that for ay, on Caledonia's strand,
Shall sit the foremost 'mang her tunefu' band.
I dream't yestreen his deadly wraith I saw
Gang by my ein as white's the driven snaw
My colley, Ringie, youf'd an' yowl'd a' night,
Cour'd an' crap near me in an unco' fright,
I waken'd fley'd, an' shook baith lith an' limb
A cauldness took me, an' my sight grew dim
I kent that it forspak approachin' wae
When my poor doggie was disturbit sae.
Nae sooner did the day begin to dawn,
Than I beyont the know fu' speedy ran,
Whare I was keppit wi' the heavy tale
That sets ilk dowie sangster to bewail.

DAVIE.
An' wha on Fifan bents can weel refuse
To gie the tear o' tribute to his muse
Fareweel ilk cheery spring, ilk canty note,
Be damn an' ilk idle play forgot
Bring ilka herd the mournfu', mournfu' boughs,
Rosemary sad, and ever dreary yews
Thae lat be steepit i' the saut, saut tear,
To weet wi' hallow'd draps his sacred bier,
Whase sangs will ay in Scotland be rever'd,
While slow-gawn owsen 1 turn the flow'ry swaird
While bonny lambies lick the dews of spring,
While gaudsmen whistle, or while birdies sing.

GEORDIE
'Twas na for weel-tim'd verse or sangs alane,
He bore the bell frae ilka shepherd swain.
Nature to him had gi'en a kindly lore,
Deep a' her mystic ferlies to explore
For a' her secret workings he could gie
Reasons that wi' her principles agree.
Ye saw yoursell how weel his mailin thrave
Ay better faugh'd an' snodit than the lave
Lang had the thristles an' the dockans been
In use to wag their taps upo' the green,
Whare now his bonny riggs delight the view,
An' thrivin' hedges drink the caller dew.

DAVIE
They tell me, Geordie, he had sic a gift
That scarce a starnie blinkit frae the lift,
But he wou'd some auld warld name for't find,
As gart him keep it freshly in his mind :
For this some ca'd him an uncanny wight ;
The clash gaed round, " he had the second sight ;'
A tale that never fail'd to be the pride
Of graunies spinnin' at the ingle side.

GEORDIE.
But now he's gane, an' Fame that, whan alive,
Seenil lats ony o' her vot'ries thrive,
Will frae his shinin' name a' motes withdraw,
And on her loudest trump his praises blaw.
Lang may his sacred banes untroubl'd rest
Lang may his truff in gowans gay be drest
Scholars and bards unheard of yet shall come,
And stamp memorials on his grassy tomb,
Which in yon antient kirkyard shall remain,
Fam'd as the urn that hads the Mantuan swain.


HALLOW-FAIR.

At Hallowmas, whan nights grow lang,
And starnies shine fu' clear,
Whan fock, the nippin cald to bang,
Their winter hap-warms wear,
Near Edinbrough a fair there hads,
I wat there's nane whase name is,
For strappin dames and sturdy lads,
And cap and stoup, mair famous Than it that day.

Upo' the tap o' ilka lum
The sun began to keek,
And bid the trig made maidens come
A sightly joe to seek
At Hallowfair, where browsters rare
Keep gude ale on the gantries,
And dinna scrimp ye o' a skair
O' kebbucks frae their pantries, Fu' saut that day.

Here country John in bannet blue,
And eke his Sunday's claise on,
Rins after Meg wi' rokelay new,
And sappy kisses lays on
She'll tauntin say, " Ye silly coof
" Be o' your gab mair spairin',"
He'll tak the hint, and criesh her loof
Wi' what will buy her fairin', To chow that day.

Here chapmen billies tak their stand,
An' shaw their bonny wallies
Wow, but they lie fu' gleg aff hand
To trick the silly fallows.
Heh, sirs ! what cairds and tinklers come,
An' ne'er-do-weel horse-coupers,
An' spae-wives fenzying to be dumb,
Wi' a' siclike landloupers, To thrive that day.

Here Sawny cries, frae Aberdeen,
"Come ye to me fa need :
The brawest shanks that e'er were seen
" I'll sell ye cheap an' guid,
" I wyt they are as protty hose
" As come frae weyr or leem
" Here tak' a rug and shaw's your pose :
" Forseeth, my ain's but teem "An' light this day."

Ye wives, as ye gang thro' the fair,
mak your bargains hooly
Of a' thir wylie louns beware,
Or fegs they will ye spulzie.
For fairn-year Meg Thamson got,
Frae thir mischievous villains,
A scaw'd bit o' a penny note,
That lost a score o' shillins To her that day.

The dinlin drums alarm our ears,
The Serjeant screechs fu' loud,
"A' gentlemen and volunteers
" That wish your country gude,
" Come here to me, and I sail gie "
Twa guineas and a crown,
" A bowl o' punch, that like the sea
" Will soum a lang dragoon " Wi' ease this day."

Without, the cussers prance and nicker,
An' owr the ley-rig scud
In tents the carles bend the bicker,
An' rant an' roar like wud.
Then there's sic yellowchin and din,
Wi' wives and wee-anes gablin,
That ane might true they war a-kin
To a' the tongues at Babylon, Confus'd that day.

Whan Phoebus ligs in Thetis lap,
Auld Reikie gie's them shelter,
Whare cadgily they kiss the cap,
An' ca't round helter skelter.
Jock Bell gaed furth to play his freaks,
Great cause he had to rue it,
For frae a stark Lochaber aix
He got a clamihewit Fu' sair that night.

" Ohon !" quo' he, " I'd rather be
" By sword or bagnet stickit, "
Than ha'e my crown or body wi'
" Sic deadly weapons nickit."
Wi' that he gat anither straik,
Mair weighty than before,
That gar'd his feckless body aik,
An' spew the reikin gore, Fu' red that night.

He peching on the cawsey lay,
O' kicks and cuffs weel sair'd
A Highland aith the Serjeant ga'e
" She maun pe see our guard."
Out spak the weirlike corporal,
" Pring in ta drunken sot."
They trail'd him ben, an' by my saul,
He paid his drunken groat For that neist day.

Good fock, as ye come frae the fair,
Bide yont frae this black squad
There's nae sic canker'd pack ' elsewhere
Allow'd to wear cockade. Than the strong lion's hungry maw,
Or tusk o' Russian bear, Frae their wanruly fellin' paw
Mair cause ye ha'e to fear Your death that day.

A wee soup drink dis unco weel
To had the heart aboon
Its gude as lang's a canny chiel
Can stand steeve in his shoon.
But gin a birkie's owr weel saird
It gars him aften stammer
To pleys that bring him to the guard,
An' eke the Council-chawmir, With shame that day.


TO THE TRON-KIRK BELL.

Wanwordy, crazy, dinsome thing,
As e'er was fram'd to jow or ring,
What gar'd them sic in steeple hing They ken themsel',
But weel wat I they coudna bring War sounds frae hell.

What de'il are ye that I shoud bann,
Your neither kin to pat nor pan
Nor uly pig, nor maister-cann, But weel may gie
Mair pleasure to the ear o' man Than stroke o' thee.

Fleece merchants may look bald, I trow,
Since a' Auld Reikie's childer now
Maun stap their lugs wi' teats o' woo, Thy sound to bang,
And keep it frae gawn thro' and thro' Wi' jarrin' twang.

Your noisy tongue, there's nae abideint,
Like scaulding wife's, there is nae guideint
Whan I'm 'bout ony bus'ness eident, It's sair to thole
To deave me, than, ye tak' a pride in't Wi' senseless knoll.

O! war I provost o' the town,
I swear by a' the pow'rs aboon,
I'd bring ye wi' a reesle down; Nor shud you think
(Sae sair I'd crack and clour your crown) Again to clink.

For whan I've toom'd the muckle cap,
An' fain wad fa' owr in a nap,
Troth I coud doze as soun's a tap, Wer't na for thee,
That gies the tither weary chap To waukin me.

I dreamt ae night I saw Auld Nick ;
Quo he, " this bell o' mine's a trick,
" A wylie piece o' politic, " A cunnin snare
" To trap fock in a cloven stick, " Ere they're aware.

" As lang's my dautit bell hings there,
" A' body at the kirk will skair
" Quo they, gif he that preaches there " Like it can wound,
" We douna care a single hair " For joyfu' sound."

If magistrates wi' me wud' gree,
For ay tongue-tackit shud you be,
Nor fleg wi' anti-melody Sic honest fock,
 Whase lugs were never made to dree Thy doolfu' shock.

But far frae thee the bailies dwell,
Or they wud scunner at your knell,
Grie the foul thief his riven bell, And than, I trow,
The by-word hads, " the de'il himsel' " Has got his due."


CALLER WATER

Whan father Adie first pat spade in
The bonny yeard of antient Eden,
His amry had nae liquor laid in, To fire his mou',
Nor did he thole his wife's upbraidin' For being fou.

A caller burn o' siller sheen,
Ran cannily out o'er the green,
And whan our gutcher's drouth had been To bide right sair,
He loutit down and drank bedeen A dainty skair.

His bairns a' before the flood
Had langer tack o' flesh and blood,
And on mair pithy shanks they stood Than Noah's line,
Wha still hae been a feckless brood Wi' drinking wine.

The fuddlin' Bardies now-a-days
Rin maukin-mad in Bacchus' praise,
And limp and stoiter thro' their lays Anacreontic,
While each his sea of wine displays As big's the Pontic.

My muse will no gang far frae hame,
Or scour a' airths to hound for fame ;
In troth, the jillet ye might blame For thinking on't,
Whan eithly she can find the theme Of aqua font.

This is the name that doctors use
Their patients noddles to confuse
Wi' simples clad in terms abstruse, They labour still,
In kittle words to gar you roose Their want o' skill.

But we'll hae nae sick clitter-clatter,
And briefly to expound the matter,
It shall be ca'd good Caller Water, Than whilk, I trow,
Few drogs in doctors' shops are better For me or you.

Tho' joints are stiff as ony rung,
Your pith wi' pain be fairly dung,
Be you in Caller Water flung Out o'er the lugs,
'Twill mak you souple, swack and young, Withouten drugs.

Tho' cholic or the heart-scad teaze us,
Or ony inward pain should seize us,
It masters a' sic fell diseases That would ye spulzie,
And brings them to a canny crisis Wi' little tulzie.

Wer't na for it the bonny lasses
Would glowr nae mair in keeking glasses,
And soon tine dint o' a' the graces That aft conveen
In gleefu' looks and bonny faces, To catch our ein.

The fairest then might die a maid,
And Cupid quit his shooting trade,
For wha thro' clarty masquerade Could than discover,
Whether the features under shade Were worth a lover ?

As simmer rains bring simmer flow'rs
And leaves to deed the birken bowers,
Sae beauty gets by caller show'rs, Sae rich a bloom
As for estate, or heavy dow'rs Aft stands in room.

What makes Auld Reikie's dames sae fair,
It canna be the halesome air,
But caller burn beyond compare, The best of ony,
That gars them a' sic graces skair, And blink sae bonny.

On May-day in a fairy ring,
We've seen them round St. Anthon's spring,
Frae grass the caller dew draps wring, To weet their ein,
And water clear as chrystal spring, To synd them clean.

O may they still pursue the way
To look sae feat, sae clean, sae gay !
Than shall their beauties glance like May, And, like her, be
The goddess of the vocal spray, The Muse, and me.


MUTUAL COMPLAINT OF PLAINSTANES AND CAUSEY, IN THEIR MOTHER-TONGUE.

Since Merlin x laid Auld Reikie's causey,
And made her o' his wark right saucy,
The spacious street and gude plainstanes
Were never kend to crack but anes,

Whilk happened on the hinder night,
Whan Fraser's 1 ulie tint its light,
Of Highland sentries nane were waukin,
To hear thir cronies glibbly taukin
For them this wonder might hae rotten,
And, like night robb'ry, been forgotten,
Had na' a cadie, wi' his lanthron,
Been gleg enough to hear them bant'rin,
Wha came to me neist morning early,
To gi'e me tidings o' this ferly.
Ye taunting lowns trow this nae joke,
For anes the ass of Balaam spoke,
Better than lawyers do, forsooth,
For it spake naething but the truth !
Whether they follow its example,
You'll ken best whan you hear the sample.


PLAINSTANES
 
My friend, thir hunder years and mair,
We've been forfoughen late and air,
In sun-shine, and in weety weather,
Our thrawart lot we bure thegither.
I never growl'd, but was content
Whan ilk ane had an equal stent,
But now to flyte I'se e'en be bauld,
Whan I'm wi' sic a grievance thrall'd.
How haps it, say, that mealy bakers,
Hair-kaimers, crieshy gezy-makers,

Shou'd a' get leave to waste their powders
Upon my beaux and ladies shoulders '?
My travellers are fley'd to deid
Wi' creels wanchancy, heap'd wi' bread,
Frae whilk hing down uncanny nicksticks,
That aften gie the maidens sic licks,
As make them blyth to skreen their faces
Wi' hats and muckle maun bon-graces
And cheat the lads that fain wad see
The glances o' a pauky eie,
Or gie their loves a wylie wink,
That erst might lend their hearts a clink
Speak, was I made to dree the ladin
Of Gallic chairman heavy treadin,
Wha in my tender buke bore holes
Wi' waefu' tackets i' the soals
O' broags, whilk on my body tramp,
And wound like death at ilka clamp.

CAUSEY
Weil crackit friend—It aft hads true,
Wi' naething fock make maist ado;
Weel ken ye, tho' ye doughtna tell,
I pay the sairest kain mysell
Owr me ilk day big waggons rumble,
And a' my fabric birze and jumble
Owr me the muckle horses gallop,
Enough to rug my very saul up
And coachmen never trow they're sinning,
While down the street their wheels are spinning
Like thee, do I not bide the brunt
O' Highland chairman's heavy dunt
Yet I hae never thought o' breathing
Complaint, or making din for naething.

PLAINSTANES
Had sae, and lat me get a word in, 
Your back's best fitted for the burden
And I can eithly tell you why,
Ye're doughtier by far than I
For whin-stanes, howkit frae the craigs, 
May thole the prancing feet of naigs, 
Nor ever fear uncanny hotches 
Frae clumsy carts or hackney-coaches, 
While I, a weak and feckless creature, 
Am moulded by a safter nature. 
Wi' mason's chissel dighted neat, 
To gar me look baith clean and feat, 
I scarce can bear a sairer thump
Than comes frae sole of shoe or pump.
I grant, indeed, that, now and than, 
Yield to a paten's pith I maun
But patens, tho' they're aften plenty. 
Are ay laid down wi' feet fu tenty, 
And stroaks frae ladies, tho' they're teazing,
I freely maun avow are pleasing. 
For what use was I made, I wonder,
It was na tamely to chap under 
The weight o' ilka codroch chiel, 
That does my skin to targits peel
But gin I guess aright, my trade is 
To fend frae skaith the bonny ladies, 
To keep the bairnies free frae harms
Whan airing in their nurses' arms, 
To be a safe and canny bield 
For growing youth or drooping eild. 
Take then frae me the heavy load
O' burden-bearers heavy shod,

Or, by my troth, the gude auld town shall 
Hae this affair before their council. 

CAUSEY
I dinna care a single jot, 
Tho' summon'd by a shelly-coat, 
Sae leally I'll propone defences, 
As get ye flung for my expences : 
Your libel I'll impugn verbatim,
And hae a magnum damnum datum;
For tho' frae Arthur's-seat I sprang, 
And am in constitution Strang, 
Wad it no fret the hardest stane 
Beneath the Luckenbooths to grane ?
Tho' magistrates the Cross discard,
It makes na whan they leave the Guard,

A lumbersome and stinkin bigging, 
That rides the sairest on my rigging. 
Poor me owr meikle do ye blame, 
For tradesmen tramping on your wame,
Yet a' your advocates and braw fock 
Come still to me 'twixt ane and twa clock, 
And never yet were kend to range 
At Charlie's Statue or Exchange. 
Then tak your beaux and macaronies
Gie me trades-fock and country Johnies
The deil's in't gin ye dinna sign 
Your sentiments conjunct wi' mine.

PLAINSTANES.
Gin we twa cou'd be as auld-farrant 
As gar the council gie a warrant,
Ilk lown rebellious to tak, 
Wha walks not in the proper track, 
And o' three shilling Scottish suck him, 
Or in the water-hole sair douk him
This might assist the poor's collection, 
And gie baith parties satisfaction.

CAUSEY
But first, I think it will be good 
To bring it to the Robinhood, 
Whare we shall hae the question stated, 
And keen and crabbitly debated,
Whether the provost and the baillies, 
For the town's good whase daily toil is, 
Shou'd listen to our joint petitions, 
And see obtemper'd the conditions.

PLAINSTANES
Content am I—But east the gate is 
The sun, wha taks his leave of Thetis, 
And comes to wauken honest fock, 
That gang to wark at sax o'clock
It sets us to be dumb a while, 
And let our words gie place to toil.


THE RISING OF THE SESSION

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 Blythe June again.

Tir'd o' the law, and a' its phrases,
The wylie writers, rich as Crcesus,
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 lies, 
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 o'er honest for his trade, He racks his wits, 
How he may get his buik weel clad, And fill his guts. 

The farmers' sons, as yap as sparrows, 
Are glad, I trow, to flee the barras, 
And whistle to the plough and harrows At barley seed
What writer wadna gang as far as He cou'd for bread.

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-nieal, And scart his cogie. 

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

Now gin a Notar shou'd be wanted,
You'll find the pillars gayly planted
For little thing protests are granted Upo' a bill, 
And weightiest matters covenanted For half a gill. 

Nae body takes 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 Peters coffee-room, 
For a' his china pigs are toom ; Nor do we see 
In wine the sucker biskets soom As light's a flee. 

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

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

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


THE SITTING OF THE SESSION.

Phoebus, sair cow'd wi' simmer's hight, 
Cours near the yird wi' blinking light
Cauld shaw the haughs, nae mair bedight Wi' simmer's claes, 
They heeze the heart o' dowy wight That thro' them gaes. 

Weel lo'es me o' you, business, now
For ye'll weet mony a drouthy mou',
That's lang a eisning gane for you, Withouten fill 
O' dribbles frae the gude brown cow, Or Highland gill. 

The Court o' Session, weel wat I, 
Pitts ilk chiel's whittle i' the pye, 
Can criesh the slaw-gaun wheels whan dry, Till Session's done, 
Tho' they'll gie mony a cheep and cry Or twalt o' June.

Ye benders a', that dwall in joot, 
You'll tak your liquor clean cap out, 
Synd your mouse-wabbs wi' reaming stout, While ye ha'e cash, 
And gar your cares a' tak the rout, An' thumb ne'er fash. 

Rob Gibb's grey gizz, new frizzl'd fine, 
Will white as ony snaw-ba' shine ; 
Weel does he lo'e the lawen coin Whan dossied down,
For whisky gills or dribbs of wine In cauld forenoon. 

Bar-keepers now, at outer door,
Tak tent as fock gang back and fore : 
The fient ane there but pays his score, Nane wins toll-free, 
Tho' ye've a cause the house before, Or agent be. 

Gin ony here wi' canker knocks,
And has na lous'd his siller pocks,
Ye need na think to fleetch or cox " Come, shaw's your gear ; 
" Ae scabbit yew spills twenty flocks, " Ye's no be here." 

Now at the door they'll raise a plea
Crack on, my lads ! — for flyting's free 
For gin ye shou'd tongue-tacket be, The mair's the pity, 
Whan scalding but and ben we see Pendente lite.

The lawyer's skelfs, and printer's presses, 
Grain unco sair wi' weighty cases
The dark in toil his pleasure places, To thrive bedeen
At five-hour's bell scribes shaw their faces, And rake their ein.

The country fock to lawyers crook, 
" Ah ! Weels me on your bonny buik
" The benmost part o' my kist nook " I'll ripe for thee,
" And willing ware my hindmost rook " For my decree." 

But Law's a draw-well unco deep,
Withouten rim fock out to keep ; 
A donnart chiel, whan drunk, may dreep Fu' sleely in, 
But finds the gate baith stay and steep, Ere out he win.


ODE TO THE BEE.
Herds, blythsome tune your canty reeds. 
An' welcome to the gowany meads
The pride o' a' the insect thrang,
A stranger to the green sae lang. 
Unfald ilk buss and ilka brier, 
The bounties o' the gleesome year, 
To him whase voice delights the spring,
Whase soughs the saftest slumbers bring.
The trees in simmer-cleething drest, 
The hillocks in their greenest vest.

The brawest flow'rs rejoic'd we see, 
Disclose their sweets, and ca' on thee, 
Blythly to skim on wanton wing
Thro' a' the fairy haunts of spring.
Whan fields ha'e got their dewy gift, 
And dawnin breaks upo' the lift, 
Then gang ye're wa's thro' hight and how, 
Seek cauler haugh or sunny know, 
Or ivy'd craig or burnbank brae, 
Whare industry shall bid ye gae, 
For hiney or for waxen store, 
To ding sad poortith frae your door. 
Cou'd feckless creature, man, be wise, 
The simmer o' his life to prize, 
In winter he might fend fu' bald, 
His eild unkend to nippin cald, 
Yet thir, alas ! are antrin fock 
That lade their scape wi' winter stock. 
Auld age maist feckly glowrs right dour
Upo' the ailings of the poor, 
Wha hope for nae comforting, save 
That dowie dismal house, the grave. 
Then feeble man, be wise, take tent 
How industry can fetch content, 
Behad the bees whare'er they wing, 
Or thro' the bonny bow'rs of spring,
Whare vi'lets or whare roses blaw,
And siller dew-draps nightly fa', 
Or whan on open bent they're seen, 
On heather-bell or thristle green
The hiney's still as sweet that flows 
Frae thristle cald or kendling rose. 
Frae this the human race may learn
Reflection's hiney'd draps to earn.

Whether they tramp life's thorny way, 
Or through the sunny vineyard stray. 
Instructive bee ! attend me still, 
O'er a' my labours sey your skill
For thee shall hiney-suckles rise, 
With lading to your busy thighs,
And ilka shrub surround my cell, 
Whareon ye like to hum and dwell
My trees in bourachs o'er my ground
Shall fend ye frae ilk blast o' wind
Nor e'er shall herd, wi' ruthless spike, 
Delve out the treasures frae your bike, 
But in my fence be safe, and free To live, 
and work, and sing like me. 
Like thee, by fancy wing'd, the Muse
Scuds ear' and heartsome o'er the dews, 
Fu' vogie, and fu' blyth to crap 
The winsome flow'rs frae Nature's lap
Twining her living garlands there, 
That lyart time can ne'er impair.


THE FARMER'S INGLE.

Whan gloming grey out o'er the welkin keeks,
Whan Batie ca's his owsen to the byre,

Whan Thrasher John, sair dung, his barn-door steeks, 
And lusty lasses at the dighting tire
What bangs fu' leal the e'enings coming cauld, 
And gars snaw-tapit winter freeze in vain
Gars dowie mortals look baith blyth and bauld, 
Nor fley'd wi' a' the poortith o' the plain
Begin my Muse, and chant in hamely strain.

Frae the big stack, weel winnow't on the hill, 
Wi' divets theekit frae the weet and drift, 
Sods, peats, and heath'ry trufs the chimley fill, 
And gar their thick'ning smeek salute the lift
The gudeman, new come hame, is blyth to find, 
Whan he out o'er the halland flings his een, 
That ilka turn is handled to his mind, 
That a' his housie looks sae cosh and clean
For cleanly house looes he, tho' e'er sae mean. 

Weel kens the gudewife that the pleughs require
A heartsome meltith, and refreshing synd

O' nappy liquor, o'er a bleezing fire
Sair wark and poortith douna weel be join'd. 
Wi' butter'd bannocks now the girdle reeks, 
I' the far nook the bowie briskly reams
The readied kail stand by the chimley cheeks,
And had the riggin het wi' welcome steams, 
Whilk than the daintiest kitchen nicer seems.

Frae this lat gentler gabs a lesson lear
Wad they to labouring lend an eidant hand,
They'd rax fell Strang upo' the simplest fare, 
Nor find their stamacks ever at a stand. 
Fu' hale and healthy wad they pass the day, 
At night in calmest slumbers dose fu' sound, 
Nor doctor need their weary life to spae, 
Nor drogs their noddle and their sense confound,
Till death slip sleely on, and gi'e the hindmost wound.

On sicken food has mony a doughty deed 
By Caledonia's ancestors been done ; 
By this did mony^wight fu' weirlike bleed 
In brulzies frae the dawn to set o' sun
'Twas this that brac'd their gardies, stiff and Strang, 
That bent the deidly yew in antient days, 
Laid Denmark's daring sons on yird alang, 
Gar'd Scottish thristles bang the Roman bays
For near our crest their heads they doughtna raise.

The couthy cracks begin whan supper's o'er, 
The cheering bicker gars them glibly gash
O' simmer's showery blinks and winters sour, 
Whase floods did erst their mailins produce hash
'Bout kirk and market eke their tales gae on, 
How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride, 
And there how Marion, for a bastard son, 
Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride, 
The waefu' scald o' our Mess John to bide.

The fient a chiep's amang the bairnies now ; 
For a' their anger's wi' their hunger gane
Ay maun the childer, wi' a fastin mou'
Grumble and greet, and make an unco mane,
In rangles round before the ingle's low : 
Frae gudame's mouth auld warld tale they hear, 
O' warlocks, louping round the wirrikow,
O' gaists that win in glen and kirk-yard drear,
 Whilk touzles a' their tap, and gars them shak wi' fear.

For weel she rows that fiends and fairies be 
Sent frae the de'il to fleetch us to our ill
That ky hae tint their milk wi' evil eie, 
And corn been scowder'd on the glowing kill. 
O mock na this, my friends ! but rather mourn, 
Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear, 
Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return, 
And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly fear
The mind's ay cradled whan the grave is near.

Yet thrift, industrious, bides her latest days, 
Tho' age her sair dow'd front wi' runcles wave, 
Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays, 
Her e'enin stent reels she as weel's the lave. 

On some feast-day, the wee-things buskit braw
Shall heeze her heart up wi' a silent joy, '
Fu' cadgie that her head was up and saw 
Her ain spun cleething on a darling oy, 
Careless tho' death should make the feast her foy.

In its auld lerroch yet the deas remains,
Whare the gudeman aft streeks him at his ease, 
A warm and canny lean for weary banes,
O' lab'rers doil'd upo' the wintry leas. 
Round him will badrins and the colly come, 
To wag their tail, and cast a thankfu' eie 
To him wha kindly flings them mony a crum
O' kebbock whang'd, and dainty fadge to prie
This a' the boon they crave, and a' the fee.

Frae him the lads their morning counsel tak, 
What stacks he wants to thrash, what rigs to till, 
How big a birn maun lie on bassie's back, 
For meal and multure to the thirling mill. 
Niest the gudewife her hireling damsels bids 
Glowr thro' the byre, and see the hawkies bound,
Take tent case Crummy tak her wonted tids, 
And ca' the laiglen's treasure on the ground,
Whilk spills a kebbuck nice, or yellow pound.

Then a' the house for sleep begin to grien, 
Their joints to slack frae industry a while
The leaden god fa's heavy on their ein, 
And hafflins steeks them frae their daily toil

The cruizy too can only blink and bleer, 
The restit ingle's done the maist it dow ;
l Tacksman and cottar eke to bed maun steer, 
Upo' the cod to clear their drumly pow,
Till wauken'd by the dawning's ruddy glow.

Peace to the husbandman and a' his tribe, 
Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to year ;
Lang may his sock and couter turn the gleyb,
And bauks o' corn bend down wi' laded ear. 
May Scotia's simmers ay look gay and green, 
Her yellow har'sts frae scowry blasts decreed ; 
May a' her tenants sit fu' snug and bien, 
Frae the hard grip of ails and poortith freed, 
And a lang lasting train o' peaceful hours succeed.

SONG — THE ' LEA-RIG.'

Will ye gang o'er the lee-rig, 
my ain kind deary, O ! 
And cuddle their sae kindly,
wi' me, my kind deary O !
At thornie dike and oirken tree, 
we'll daff, and ne'er be weary O ;

They'll scug ill een frae you and me, 
mine ain kind deary O ! 

Nae herds wi' kent, or colly there, 
Shall ever come to fear ye -  O
But lav'rocks, whistling in the air, 
Shall woo, like me, their deary -  O ! 
While others herd their lambs and ewes, 
And toil for warld's gear, my jo,
Upon the lee my pleasure grows, 
Wi' you, my kind deary -  O !


THE GHAISTS: A KIRK-YARD ECLOGUE.

Whare the braid planes in dowy murmurs wave
Their antient taps out o'er the cauld-clad grave, 
Whare Geordie Girdwood, mony a lang-spun day,
Houkit for gentlest banes the humblest clay,
Twa sheeted ghaists, sae grizly and sae wan, 
'Mang lanely tombs their douff discourse began.

WATSON
Cauld blaws the nippin north wi' angry sough,
And showers his hailstanes frae the Castle Cleugh
O'er the Grayfriars, whare, at mirkest hour,
Bogles and spectres wont to tak their tour, 
Harlin' the pows and shanks to hidden cairns, 
Amang the hamlocks wild, and sun- burnt fearns, 
But nane the night save you and I hae come
Frae the dern mansions of the midnight tomb. 
Now whan the dawning's near, whan cock maun craw, 
And wi' his angry bougil gar's withdraw,
Ayont the kirk we'll stap, and there take bield, 
While the black hours our nightly freedom yield.

HERRIOT
I'm weel content ; but binna cassen down, 
Nor trow the cock will ca' ye hame o'er soon, 
For tho' the eastern lift betakens day,
Changing her rokely black for mantle grey, 
Nae weirlike bird our knell of parting rings, 
Nor sheds the caller moisture frae his wings. 
Nature has chang'd her course ; the birds o' day
Dosin' in silence on the bending spray, 
While owlets round the craigs at noon-tide flee, 
And bludy hawks sit singand on the tree. 

Ah, Caledon ! the land I yence held dear, 
Sair mane mak I for thy destruction near
And thou, Edina ! anes my dear abode,
Whan royal Jamie sway'd the sovereign rod, 
In thae blest days, weel did I think bestow'd, 
To blaw thy poortith by wi1 heaps o' gowd
To mak thee sonsy seem wi' mony a gift, 
And gar thy stately turrets speel the lift
In vain did Danish Jones, wi' gimcrack pains, 
In Gothic sculpture fret the pliant stanes
In vain did he affix my statue here, 
Brawly to busk wi1 now'rs ilk coming year
My tow'rs are sunk, my lands are barren now, 
My fame, my honour, like my flow'rs maun dow.

WATSON
Sure Major Weir, or some sic warlock wight, 
as flung beguilin' glamer o'er your sight
Or else some kittle cantrup thrown, I ween, 
Has bound in mirlygoes my ain twa ein, 
If ever aught frae sense cou'd be believ'd 
(And seenil hae my senses been deceiv'd),

This moment, o'er the tap of Adam's tomb, 
Fu' easy can I see your chiefest dome
Nae corbie fleein' there, nor crouping craws, 
Seem to forspeak the ruin of thy haws, 
But a' your tow'rs in wonted order stand, 
Steeve as the rocks that hem our native land.

HERRIOT
Think na I vent my well-a-day in vain, 
Kent ye the cause, ye sure .wad join my mane.
Black be the day 2 that e'er to England's ground
Scotland was eikit by the Union's bond
For mony a menzie of destructive ills 
The country now maun brook frae mortmain bills, 
That void our test'ments, and can freely gie
Sic will and scoup to the ordain'd trustee, 
That he may tir our stateliest riggins bare, 
Nor acres, houses, woods, nor fishins spare,
Till he can lend the stoitering state a lift 
Wi' gowd in gowpins as a grassum gift
In lieu o' whilk, we maun be weel content 
To tyne the capital at three per cent. 
A doughty sum indeed, whan now-a-days
They raise provisions as the stents they raise,

Yoke hard the poor, and lat the rich chiels be, 
Pamper'd at ease by ither's industry. 
Hale interest for my fund can scantly now
Cleed a' my callants' backs, and stap their mou'
How maun their weyms wi' sairest hunger slack, 
Their duds in targets naff upo' their back,
Whan they are doom'd to keep a lasting Lent, 
Starving for England's weel at three per cent.

WATSON
Auld Reikie than may bless the gowden times, 
Whan honesty and poortith baith are crimes
She little kend, when you and I endow'd 
Our hospitals for back-gaun burghers gude, 
That e'er our siller or our lands should bring
A gude bien living to a back-gaun king,
Wha, thanks to ministry ! is grown sae wise, 
He douna chew the bitter cud of vice ; 
For gin, frae Castlehill to Netherbow,
Wad honest houses baudy-houses grow, 
The crown wad never spier the price o' sin, 
Nor hinder younkers to the de'il to rin
But gif some mortal grien for pious fame,
And leave the poor man's pray'r to sain his name, 
His geer maun a' be scatter'd by the claws
O' ruthless, ravenous, and harpy laws. 
Yet, shou'd I think, altho' the bill tak place, 
The council winna lack sae meikle grace 
As lat our heritage at wanworth gang, 
Or the succeeding generations wrang
O' braw bien maintenance and walth o' lear, 
Whilk else had drappit to their children's skair
For mony a deep, and mony a rare engyne
Ha'e sprung frae Herriot's wark, and sprung frae mine,

HERIOT
I find, my friend, that ye but little ken,
There's einow on the earth a set o' men, 
Wha, if they get their private pouches lin'd, 
Gie na a winnelstrae for a' mankind ; 
They'll sell their country, flae their conscience bare, 
To gar the weigh- bauk turn a single hair. 
The government need only bait the line 
Wi' the prevailing flee, the gowden coin, 
Then our executors, and wise trustees, 
Will sell them fishes in forbidden seas, 
Upo' their dwining country girn in sport, 
Laugh in their sleeve, and get a place at court.

WATSON
Ere that day come, I'll 'mang our spirits pick
Some ghaist that trokes and conjures wi' Auld Nick
To gar the wind wi' rougher rumbles blaw,
And weightier thuds than ever mortal saw : 
Fire-naught and hail, wi' tenfald fury's fires, 
Shall lay yird-laigh Edina's airy spires
Tweed shall rin rowtin' down his banks out o'er, 
Till Scotland's out o' reach of England's pow'r
Upo' the briny Borean jaws to float, 
And mourn in dowy saughs her dowy lot. 

HERRIOT.
Yonder's the tomb of wise Mackenzie fam'd,
Whase laws rebellious bigotry reclaim'd, 
Freed the hail land frae covenanting fools, 
Wha erst ha'e fash'd us wi' unnumber'd dools
Till night we'll tak the swaird aboon our pows, 
And than, whan she her ebon chariot rows, 
We'll travel to the vaut wi' stealing stap, 
And wauk Mackenzie frae his quiet nap
Tell him our ails, that he, wi' wonted skill, 
May fleg the schemers o' the mortmain-bill.

LETTERS.
TO R[OBERT] FERGUSSON.

Deed R., I e'en man dip my pen, 
But how to write I dinna ken
For learning, I got fint a grain, To tell me how
To write to ony gentleman Sic like as you. 

How blyth am I whan I do see 
A piece o' your fine poetrie,
It gars me laugh fou merrilie, Because there's nane
That gies sic great insight to me, As your's itlane.

Trouth, Fergusson, I'm verry shier, 
(Therefore I think I need na spier) 
That ye dwalt anes abien the mier, For ye do crack
The very sam way we do here At Amond back.

Ye've English plain enough nae doubt,
And Latin too, but ye do suit Your lines, 
to fock that's out about, 'Mang hills and braes
This is the thing that gars me shout Sae loud your praise.

Gin ever ye come hereawa'
I hope ye'll be sae gude as ca' 
For Andrew Gray, at Whistleha', The riddle macker. 
About a riglength frae Coolsa Just o'er the water. 

We's treat ye, lad, for doing sae weel, 
Wi' bannocks o' guid barley meal,
And wi' as mony cabbage kail As ye can tak
And twa three chappins o' guid ale, To gar ye crack.

Whan this ye see, tak up your pen 
And write word back to me again
And fou you are, mind lat me ken Without delay
To hear ye're weel, I'll be right fain
Your's, Andrew Gray.


TO ANDREW GRAY. 

Nae langer byegane, than the streen, 
Your couthy letter met my ein
I lang to wag a cutty speen On Amond water; 
And claw the lips o' truncher tree'n And tak a clatter. 

" Frae Whistleha' " your muse doth cry
Whare'er ye win I carena bye
Ye're no the laird o' Whistledry, As lang's ye can
Wi' routh o' reekin' kail supply The inward man.

You'll trow me billy, kail's fu' geed 
To synd an' peerify the bleid
'Twill rin like ony scarlet reid, While patt ye put on
Wi' wethers that round Amond feed, The primest mutton. 

Ane wad maist think ye'd been at Scoon, 
Whan kings wure there the Scottish crown
A soupler or mair fletching loun, Ne'er hap'd on hurdies,
Whan courtier's tongues war' there in tune For oily wordies. 

Can you nae ither theme divine 
To blaw upon, but my engyne
At Nature keek, she's unco fine Redd up, and braw
An can gie scouth to muses nine At Whistleha'. 

Her road awhile is rough an' round, 
An' few poetic gowans found
The stey braes o' the muses ground We scarce can crawl up
But on the tap we're light as wind To scour an' gallop. 

Whan first ye sey'd to mak a riddle, 
You'd hae an unco fike an' piddle, 
An' ablins brak aff i' the middle, Like Sanny Butler 
'Tis ein sae wi' Apollo's fiddle, Before we wit lear. 

Then flegna at this weary practice, 
That's tane to get this wyly nack nice
The eidant muse begins to crack wise, An' ne'er cry dule
It's idle-seat, that banefu' black vice, That gars her cool.


Andrew, at . Whistleha', your ein 
May lippen for me very sien, 
For barley-scones my grinders grien, They're special eating
Wi' bizzin cogs that ream abien Our thrapple weeting.

Till than may you had hale and fier, 
That we to Maltman's browst may steer, 
And ilka care and ilka fear To dog-drive ding
While cheek for chow we laugh and jeer And crack and sing. 
R. Fergusson.


TO R[OBERT] FERGUSSON. 
At twall a clock, ae Saturday, 
Your letter came to Andrew Gray
But weel a wat I canna' say Nor can I tell ye, 
How blyth I was a' that hale day, Tho' you sud fell me. 

The riddles they got leave to stand, 
To them I wad na pit a hand, 
Nor wad I split a single wand, For twonty pund
Nor to the cow, worth, make a band, I was sae fond. 

Ye say ye lang to wag a speen, 
Wi' Andrew Gray your couthy frien'
Whilk gard me dance upo' the green, Without a fiddle
Your canty letter was the tien That gard me diddle. 

But fatfor did ye yon way blaw, 
An' me sae fine and souple ca' 
I'm very shier, there's nane ava' O' yon that's true ; 
There's nae ane stays i' Whistleha' Can equal you. 

Ye bade me too, at nature keek
I wonder that ye yon way speak, 
Gied fieth it's nae into the breek O' Andrew Gray
A fouishenless and silly leek, Nae worth a strae. 

Whan first I sey'd the riddle makin',
The splits they aften took a brakin', 
And mony time pat me frae crackin' Yet soon I grew, 
That I, as clever's eel or maukin, About them flew. 

But Nature, lad, is nae for me, 
For her my ein right canna' see, 
I canna' touch her after thee, Nor s'all I meddle ; 
Just jog on at the sauchen tree, And mak' a riddle.

O' Whistledry I'm nae the laird, 
For I o' a' thing am weel saird
And tho' I say't, the fint a shaird, A' here awa', 
Has ought withint to be compar'd Wi' Whistleha. 

Whan ye come up to Whistleha',
A good fat wather hame I'll ca', 
And a' the beastly bleed I'll draw, 'Afore he dee, 
And gar Meg mak' him ready a' For you and me.

Syne to the browster house we'll drive, 
And drink till we be like to rive, 
An' gin ye like, lad, we s'all strive Wha's best at singin'
And keep our spirits a' alive Wi' music ringin'.

O! vow ! how happy will we be, 
Whan ane anither's face we see, 
I'm vera shier that as for me, I winna ken' 
Fat end o' me will imost be, I'll be sae fain. 
Andrew Gray.


ON SEEING A BUTTERFLY IN THE STREET.

Daft gowk, in macaroni dress, 
Are ye come here to shew your face,
Bowden wi' pride o' simmer gloss, 
To cast a dash at Reikie's cross
And glowr at mony twa-legg'd creature, 
Flees braw by art, tho' worms by nature 
Like country laird in city deeding,
Ye're come to town to lear' good breeding
To bring ilk darling toast and fashion, 
In vogue amang the flee creation, 
That they, like buskit belles and beaus,
May crook their mou' fu' sour at those 
Whase weird is still to creep, alas
Unnotic'd 'mang the humble grass
While you, wi' wings new buskit trim, 
Can far frae yird and reptiles skim ; 
Newfangle grown wi' new got form,
You soar aboon your mither worm. 
Kind Nature lent but for a day 
Her wings to make ye sprush and gay
In her habuliments a while 
Ye may your former sel' beguile,
And ding awa' the vexing thought 
Of hourly dwining into nought,
By beenging to your foppish brithers, 
Black corbies dress'd in peacocks feathers
Like thee they dander here an' there, 
Whan simmer's blinks are warm an' fair,
 An' loo to snuff the healthy balm
Whan ev'nin' spreads her wing sae calm
But whan she girns an' glowrs sae dowr
Frae Borean houff in angry show'r, 
Like thee they scoug frae street or field, 
An' hap them in a lyther bield

For they war' never made to dree 
The adverse gloom o' Fortune's eie, 
Nor ever pried life's pining woes, 
Nor pu'd the prickles wi' the rose. 
Poor butterfly ! thy case I mourn, 
To green kail-yeard and fruits return : 
How cou'd you troke the mavis' note 
For " penny pies all-piping hot ?
Can lintie's music be compar'd
Wi' gruntles frae the City-guard 
Or can our flow'rs at ten hours bell 
The gowan or the spink excel. 
Now shou'd our sclates wi' hailstanes ring,
What cabbage fald wad screen your wing 
Say, fluttering fairy ! wer't thy hap 
To light beneath braw Nany's cap, 
Wad she, proud butterfly of May ! 
In pity lat you skaithless stay : 
The furies glancing frae her ein 
Wad rug your wings o' siller sheen, 
That, wae for thee ! far, far outvy 
Her Paris artist's finest dye
Then a' your bonny spraings wad fall, 
An' you a worm be left to crawl. 
To sic mishanter rins the laird 
Wha quats his ha'-house an' kail-yard, 
Grows politician, scours to court, 
Whare he's the laughing-stock and sport 
Of Ministers, wha jeer an' jibe, 
And heeze his hopes wi' thought o' bribe,
Till in the end they flae him bare, 
Leave him to poortith, and to care,

Their fleetching words o'er late he sees,
He trudges hame, repines and dies. 
Sic be their fa' wha dirk thir ben
In blackest business no their ain
And may thej scad their lips fu' leal, 
That dip their spoons in ither's kail.

HAME CONTENT — A SATIRE.
TO ALL WHOM IT MAY CONCERN. 

Some fock, like bees, fu' glegly rin 
To bykes bang'd fu' o' strife and din, 
And thieve and huddle crumb by crumb,
Till they have scrapt the dautit plumb,
Then craw fell crously o' their wark.
Tell o'er their turners mark by mark, 
Yet darna think to lowse the pose, 
To aid their neighbours ails and woes. 
Gif gowd can fetter thus the heart, 
And gar us act sae base a part, 
Shall man, a niggard near-gawn elf !
Rin to the tether's end for pelf; 
Learn ilka cunzied scoundrel's trick, 
Whan a's done sell his saul to Nick : 
I trow they've coft the purchase dear, 
That gang sic lengths for warldly gear. 
Now whan the Dog-day heats begin 
To birsel and to peel the skin,

May I lie streekit at my ease, 
Beneath the caller shady trees, 
(Far frae the din o' Borrowstown,)
Whar water plays the haughs bedown, 
To jouk the simmer's rigor there, 
And breath a while the caller air 
'Mang herds an' honest cottar fock, 
That till the farm and feed the flock
;Careless o' mair, wha never fash 
To lade their kist wi' useless cash, 
But thank the gods for what they've sent
O' health enough, and blyth content, 
An' pith, that helps them to stravaig
Owr ilka cleugh and ilka craig, 
Unkend to a' the weary granes 
That aft arise frae gentler banes,
On easy-chair that pamper'd lie, 
Wi' banefu' viands gustit high,
And turn and fald their weary clay, 
To rax and gaunt the live-lang day.
Ye sages, tell, was man e'er made
To dree this hatefu' sluggard trade 
Steekit frae Nature's beauties a' 
That daily on his presence ca'
At hame to girn, and whinge, and pine 
For fav'rite dishes, fav'rite wine
Come then, shake off thir sluggish ties, 
An' wi' the bird o' dawning rise
On ilka bauk the clouds hae spread 
Wi' blobs o' dew a pearly bed
Frae faulds nae mair the owsen rout, 
But to the fatt'ning clover lout, 
Whare they may feed at heart's content, 
Unyokit frae their winter's stent.
Unyoke then, man, an' binna sweer 
To ding a hole in ill-haind gear
O think that eild, wi' wyly fitt, 
Is wearing nearer bit by bit
Gin yence he claws you wi' his paw, 
What's siller for ? Fiend haet ava, 
But gowden playfair, that may please
The second sharger till he dies. 
Some daft chiel reads, and taks advice
The chaise is yokit in a trice
Awa drives he like huntit de'il, 
And scarce tholes time to cool his wheel,
Till he's lord kens how far awa, 
At Italy, or Well o' Spa', 
Or to Montpelier's safter air
For far aff fowls hae feathers fair. 
There rest him weel ; for eith can we
Spare mony glakit gouks like he
They'll tell whare Tibur's waters rise ; 
What sea receives the drumly prize, 
That never wi' their feet hae mett 
The marches o' their .ain estate. 
The Arno and the Tibur lang
Hae run fell clear in Roman sang
But, save the reverence of schools
They're baith but lifeless dowy pools, 
Dought they compare wi' bonny Tweed, 
As clear as ony lammer-bead ?
Or are their shores mair sweet and gay 
Than Fortha's haughs or banks o' Tay ?
Tho' there the herds can jink the show'rs 
'Mang thriving vines an' myrtle bow'rs,

And blaw the reed to kittle strains, 
While echo's tongue commends their pains; 
Like ours, they canna warm the heart 
Wi' simple, saft, bewitching art. 
On Leader haughs an' Yarrow braes, 
Arcadian herds wad tyne their lays, 
To hear the mair melodious sounds 
That live on our poetic grounds.
Come, Fancy ! come, and let us tread 
The simmer's flow'ry velvet bed, 
And a' your springs delightfu' lowse 
On Tweeda's banks or Cowdenknows,
That, ta'en wi' thy inchanting sang, 
Our Scottish lads may round ye thrang, 
Sae pleas'd, they'll never fash again 
To court you on Italian plain ; 
Soon will they guess ye only wear 
The simple garb o' Kature here
Mair comely far, an' fair to sight
Whan in her easy cleething dight,
Than in disguise ye was before 
On Tibur's, or on Arno's shore. 
O Bangour ! now the hills and dales 
Nae mair gi'e back thy tender tales
The birks on Yarrow now deplore
Thy mournfu' muse has left the shore
Near what bright burn or chrystal spring
Did you your winsome whistle hing ?

The muse shall there, wi' wat'ry eie, 
Gi'e the dunk swaird a tear for thee
And Yarrow's genius, dowy dame !
Shall there forget her blude-stain'd stream, 
On thy sad grave to seek repose, 
Wha mourn'd her fate, condol'd her woes.


LEITH RACES.

In July month, ae bonny morn,
Whan Nature's rokelay green 
Was spread o'er ilka rigg o' corn, 
To charm our roving een
Glouring about I saw a quean, 
The fairest 'neath the lift
Her een ware o" the siller sheen, 
Her skin like snawy drift, Sae white that day.

Quod she, " I ferly unco sair, 
" That ye sud musand gae, 
" Ye wha hae sung o' Hallow-fair, 
" Her winter's pranks and play

" Whan on Leith-Sands the racers rare, 
" Wi' Jocky louns are met,
" Their orrow pennies there to ware,
" And drown themsel's in debt " Fu' deep that day.'

And wha are ye, my winsome dear, 
That takes the gate sae early ? 
Whare do ye win, gin ane may spier, 
For I right meikle ferly, 
That sic braw buskit laughing lass 
Thir bonny blinks shou'd gi'e, 
An' loup like Hebe o'er the grass, 
As wanton and as free, Frae dule this day.

" I dwall amang the caller springs
" That weet the Land o' Cakes,
" And aften tune my canty strings 
" At bridals and late-wakes
" They ca' me Mirth ; I ne'er was kend
" To grumble or look sour, 
" But blyth wad be a lift to lend, 
" Gif ye wad sey my pow'r " An' pith this day."

A bargain be't, and, by my feggs, 
Gif ye will be my mate, 
Wi' you I'll screw the cheery pegs, 
Ye shanna find me blate
We'll reel an' ramble thro' the sands, 
And jeer wi' a' we meet

Nor hip the daft and gleesome bands 
That fill Edina's street Sae thrang this day.

Ere servant maids had wont to rise 
To seeth the breakfast kettle, 
Ilk dame her brawest ribbons tries, 
To put her on her mettle, 
Wi' wiles some silly chiel to trap, 
(And troth he's fain to get her,) 
But she'll craw kniefly in his crap, 
Whan, wow ! he canna flit her Frae hame that day.

Now, mony a scaw'd and bare-ars'd lown
Rise early to their wark,
Enough to fiey a muckle town, 
Wi' dinsome squeel and bark.
" Here is the true an' faithfu' list 
" O' Noblemen and Horses
" Their eild, their weight, their height, their grist, 
" That rin for Plates or Purses Fu' fleet this day."

To whisky plooks that brunt for wooks 
On town-guard soldiers' faces, 
Their barber bauld his whittle crooks, 
An' scrapes them for the races
Their stumps erst us'd to filipegs, 
Are dight in spaterdashes
Whase barkent hides scarce fend their legs 
Frae weet and weary plashes O' dirt that day.

" Come, hafe a care (the captain cries), 
" On guns your bagnets thraw ; 
" Now mind your manual exercise, 
" An' marsh down raw by raw." 
And as they march he'll glowr about,
Tent a' their cuts and scars
'Mang them fell mony a gausy snout 
Has gusht in birth-day wars, Wi' blude that day. 

Her nanesel maun be carefu' now, 
Nor maun she pe misleard, 
Sin baxter lads hae seal'd a vow
To skelp and clout the guard 
I'm sure Auld Reikie kens o' nane
That wou'd be sorry at it, 
Tho' they should dearly pay the kane, 
An' get their tails weel sautit And sair thir days.

The tinkler billies i' the Bow 
Are now less eidant clinking,

As lang's their pith or siller dow,
They're daffin', and they're drinking.
Bedown Leith Walk what burrochs reel 
Of ilka trade and station, 
That gar their wives an' childer feel 
Toom weyms for their libation O' drink thir days.

The browster wives thegither harl 
A' trash that they can fa' on
They rake the grounds o' ilka barrel, 
To profit by the lawen : 
For weel wat they a skin leal het 
For drinking needs nae hire
At drumbly gear they take nae pet
Foul water slockens fire And drouth thir days.

They say, ill ale has been the deid
O' mony a beirdly lown ; 
Then dinna gape like gleds wi' greed 
To sweel hail bickers down
Gin Lord send mony ane the morn,
They'll ban fu' sair the time 
That e'er they toutit aff the horn 
Which wambles thro' their weym Wi' pain that day. 

The Buchan bodies thro' the beech
Their bunch of Findrums cry, 
An' skirl out haul', in Norland speech, 
" Gueed speldings, fa will buy."

An', by my saul, they're nae wrang gear 
To gust a stirrah's mow
Weel staw'd wi' them, he'll never spear
 The price of being fu' Wi' drink that day.


Now wyly wights at rowly powl, 
An' flingin' o' the dice, 
Here brake the banes o' mony a soul, 
Wi' fa's upo' the ice
At first the gate seems fair an' straught, 
So they had fairly till her
But wow ! in spite o' a' their maught,
They're rookit o' their siller An' goud that day.

Around whare'er ye fling your een, 
The haiks like wind are scourin'
Some chaises honest folk contain, 
An' some hae mony a whore in
Wi' rose and lily, red and white,
They gie themselves sic fit airs, 
Like Dian, they will seem perfite
But its nae goud that glitters Wi' them thir days.

The lyon here, wi' open paw, 
May cleek in mony hunder,
Wha geek at Scotland and her law, 
His wyly talons under;
For ken, tho' Jamie's laws are auld, 
(Thanks to the wise recorder), 
His lyon yet roars loud and bauld, 
To had the Whigs in order Sae prime this day. 

To town-guard drum of clangor clear, 
Baith men and steeds are raingit
Some liveries red or yellow wear, 
And some are tartan spraingit
And now the red, the blue e'en-now
Bids fairest for the market
But, 'ere the sport be done, I trow
Their skins are gayly yarkit And peel'd thir days.

Siclike in Robinhood debates, 
Whan twa chiels hae a pingle
E'en-now some couli gets his aits, 
An' dirt wi' words they mingle,
Till up loups he, wi' diction fu', 
There's lang and dreech contesting
For now they're near the point in view 
Now ten miles frae the question In hand that night.

The races o'er, they hale the dools, 
Wi' drink o' a' kin-kind

Great feck gae hirpling hame like fools, 
The cripple lead. the blind. 
May ne'er the canker o' the drink
E'er make our spirits thrawart,
'Case we git wharewitha' to wink
Wi' een as blue's a blawart Wi' straiks thir days !


HALLOWFAIR.

There's fouth of braw Jockies and Jennies 
Comes weel-busked into the fair, 
With ribbons on their cockernonies,
And fouth o' fine flour on their hair. 
Maggie she was sae well busked, 
That Willie was ty'd to his bride
The pounie was ne'er better whisked
Wi' cudgel that hang frae his side. 
Sing farrel, [and]c.


But Maggie was wondrous jealous 
To see Willie busked sae braw
And Sawney he sat in the alehouse, 
And hard at the liquor did caw. 
There was Geordy that well loo'd his lassie, 
He touk the pint-stoup in his arms, 
And hugg'd it, and said, trouth they're saucy 
That loos nae a good father's bairn. 
Sing farrel, [and]c.

There was Wattie the muirland laddie, 
That rides on the bonny grey cout, 
With sword by his side like a cadie,
To drive in the sheep and the knout. 
His doublet sae weel it did fit him,
It scarcely came down to mid thigh,
With hair pouther'd, hatt, and a feather, 
And housing at courpon and tee.
Sing farrel, [and]c.

But bruckie play'd boo to bausie, 
And aff scour'd the cout like the win
Poor Wattie he fell in the causie, 
And birs'd a' the bains in his skin. 
His pistols fell out of the houlsters, 
And were a' bedaubed with dirt
The folks they came round him in clusters, 
Some leugh, and cry'd, Lad was you hurt ? 
Sing farrel, [and]c.


But cout wad let nae body steer him,
He was ay sae wanton and skeegh
The packman's stands he o'erturn'd them,
And gar'd a' the Jocks stand a-beech ; 
Wi' sniring behind and before him, 
For sic is the metal of brutes
Poor Wattie, and wae's me for him,
Was fain to gang hame in his boots. 
Sing farrel, [and]c. 

Now it was late in the ev'ning,
And boughting-time was drawing near
The lasses had stench'd their greening
With fouth of braw apples and beer. 
There was Lillie, and Tibbie, and Sibbie, 
And Ceicy on the spinnell could spin, 
Stood glowring at signs and glass winnocks, 
But deil a ane bade them come in. 
Sing farrel, [and]c. 

God guide's ! saw you ever the like o' it ? 
See yonder's a bonny black swan
It glowrs as't wad fain be at us
What's yon that it hads in its hands 
Awa', daft gouk, cries Wattie,
They're a' but a rickle of sticks
See there is Bill, Jock, and auld Hackie,
And yonder's Mess John and auld Nick,
Sing farrel, [and]c.

Quoth Maggie, come buy us our fairing
And Wattie right sleely cou'd tell, 
I think thou're the flower of the claughing 
In trouth now I'se gie you my sell.

But wha wau'd e'er thought it o' him, 
That e'er he had rippled the lint ? 
Sae proud was he o' his Maggie,
Tho' she did baith scalie and squint. 
Sing farrel, [and]c.


ODE TO THE GOWDSPINK

Frae fields whare Spring her sweets has blawn
Wi' caller verdure o'er the lawn,
The gowdspink comes in new attire, 
The brawest 'mang the whistling choir, 
That, ere the sun can clear his ein, 
Wi' glib notes sane the simmer's green. 
Sure Nature herried mony a tree, 
For spraings and bonny spats to thee
Nae mair the rainbow can impart
Sic glowing ferlies o' her art, 
Whase pencil wrought its freaks at will 
On thee the sey - piece o' her skill. 
Nae mair through straths in simmer dight
We seek the rose to bless our sight
Or bid the bonny wa'-flowers blaw 
Whare yonder Ruin's crumblin' fa'
Thy shining garments far outstrip
The cherries upo' Hebe's lip, 
And fool the tints that Nature chose 
To busk and paint the crimson rose.

'Mang men, wae's-heart ! we aften find 
The brawest drest want peace of mind, 
While he that gangs wi' ragged coat
Is weil contentit wi' his lot.
 Whan wand wi' glewy birdlime's set, 
 To steal far aff your dautit mate,
Blyth wad ye change your cleething gay
In lieu of lav'rock's sober grey.
In vain thro' woods you sair may ban
Th' envious treachery of man,
That, wi' your gowden glister ta'en,
Still haunts you on the simmer's plain, 
And traps you 'mang the sudden fa's 
O' winter's dreary dreepin' snaws. 
Now steekit frae the gowany field, 
Frae ilka fav'rite houff and bield, 
But mergh, alas ! to disengage 
Your bonny bouck frae fettering cage, 
Your free-born bosom beats in vain 
For darling liberty again. 
In window hung, how aft we see 
Thee keek around at warblers free. 
That carrol saft, and sweetly sing 
Wi' a' the blythness of the spring 
Like Tantalus they hing you here 
To spy the glories o' the year
And tho' you're at the burnie's brink,
They douna suffer you to drink. 
Ah, Liberty ! thou bonny dame,
How wildly wanton is thy stream, 
Round whilk the birdies a' rejoice, 
An' hail you wi' a gratefu' voice.

The gowdspink chatters joyous here, 
And courts wi' gleesome sangs his peer,
The mavis frae the new-bloom'd thorn
Begins his lauds at earest morn
And herd lowns louping o'er the grass, 
Need far less fleetching till their lass, 
Than paughty damsels bred at courts, 
Wha thraw their mou's and take the dorts
But, reft of thee, fient flee we care 
For a' that life ahint can spare. 
The gowdspink, that sae lang has kend
Thy happy sweets (his wonted friend), 
Her sad confinement ill can brook
In some dark chamber's dowy nook
Tho' Mary's hand his nebb supplies,
Unkend to hunger's painfu' cries, 
Ev'n beauty canna chear the heart 
Frae life, frae liberty apart
For now we tyne its wonted lay, 
Sae lightsome sweet, sae blythely gay. 
Thus Fortune aft a curse can gie, 
To wyle us far frae liberty : 
Then tent her syren smiles wha list,
I'll ne'er envy your girnal's grist
For whan fair freedom smiles nae mair, 
Care I for life Shame fa' the hair
A field o'ergrown wi' rankest stubble, 
The essence of a paltry bubble. 


THE ELECTION.

Rejoice, ye Burghers, ane an' a', 
Lang look't for's come at last
Sair war your backs held to the wa' 
Wi' poortith an' wi' fast
Now ye may clap your wings an' craw, 
And gayly busk ilk' feather, 
For Deacon Cocks hae pass'd a law 
To rax an' weet your leather Wi' drink thir days.

Haste, Epps, quo' John, an' bring my gezz
Tak tent ye dinna't spulzie
Last night the barber ga't a friz, 
An' straikit it wi' ulzie.

Hae done your paritch lassie Liz, 
Gi'e me my sark and gravat
I'se be as braw's the Deacon is 
Whan he taks affidavit O' faith the day.

Whar's Johnny gaun, cries neebor Bess,
That he's sae gayly bodin 
Wi' new kam'd wig, weel syndet face, 
Silk hose, for hamely hodin ?
" Our Johnny's nae sma' drink you'll guess, 
"" He's trig as ony muir-cock,
" An' forth to mak a Deacon, lass
" He downa speak to poor fock Like us the day."

The coat ben-by i' the kist-nook, 
That's been this towmonth swarmin,
Is brought yence mair thereout to look, 
To fleg awa the vermin
Menzies o' moths an' flaes are shook, 
An' i' the floor they howder,
Till in a birn beneath the croock
They're singit wi a scowder To death that day.

The canty cobler quats his sta', 
His rozet an' his lingans
His buik has dree'd a sair, sair fa' 
Frae meals o' bread an' ingans
Now he's a pow o' wit and law, 
An' taunts at soals an' heels
To Walker's he can rin awa,

There whang his creams an' jeels Wi' life that day.

The lads in order tak their seat, 
(The de'il may claw the clungest)
They stegh an' connach sae the meat,
Their teeth mak mair than tongue haste
Their claes sae cleanly dight an' feat, 
An' eke their craw-black beavers, 
Like masters mows hae found the gate 
To tassels teugh wi' slavers Fu' lang that day. 

The dinner done, for brandy Strang
They cry, to weet their thrapple, 
To gar the stamack bide the bang, 
Nor wi' its laden grapple..
The grace is said—its nae o'er lang
The claret reams in bells ; 
Quod Deacon let the toast round gang,
" Come, here's our noble sel's Weel met the day."

Weels me o' drink, quo' cooper Will, 
My barrel has been geyz'd ay, 
An' has na gotten sic a fill 
Sin fu' on handsel Teysday
But makes-na, now its got a sweel, 
Ae gird I shanna cast lad, 
Or else I wish the horned de'il 
May Will wi' kittle cast dad To hell the day !

The Magistrates fu' wyly are, 
Their lamps are gayly blinking,
But they might as leive burn elsewhere,
When fock's blind fu' wi' drinking. 
Our Deacon wadna ca' a chair. 
The foul ane durst him na-say ; 
He took shanks-naig, but fient may care, 
He arslins kiss'd the cawsey Wi' bir that night.

Weel loes me o' you, souter Jock, 
For tricks ye buit be trying,
Whan greapin for his ain bed-stock,
He fa's whare Will's wife's lying. 
Will coming hame wi' ither fock, 
He saw Jock there before him ; 
Wi' master laiglen, like a brock 
He did wi' stink maist smore him Fu' Strang that night.

Then wi' a souple leathern whang
He gart them fidge an' girn ay, 
" Faith, chiel, ye's no for naething gang
" Gin ye man reel my pirny."
Syne wi' a muckle alshin lang
He brodit Maggie's hurdies
An' 'cause he thought her i' the wrang, 
There pass'd nae bonny wordies 'Mang them that night.

Now, had some laird his lady fand, 
In sic unseemly courses,
It might hae loos'd the haly band, 
Wi' law-suits an' divorces

But the niest day they a' shook hands,
And ilka crack did sowder, 
While Megg for drink her apron pawns, 
For a' the gude-man cow'd her Whan fu' last night. 

Glowr round the cawsey, up an' down,
What mobbing and what plotting ! 
Here politicians bribe a loun 
Against his saul for voting.
The gowd that inlakes half a crown
Thir blades lug out to try them,
They pouch the gowd, nor fash the town
For weights an' scales to weigh them Exact that day.

Then Deacons at the counsel stent 
To get themsel's presentit
For towmonths twa their saul is lent, 
For the town's gude indentit
Lang's their debating thereanent
About protests they're bauthrin, 
While Sandy Fife, to mak content, 
On bells plays Clout the caudron To them that day. 

Ye lowns that troke in doctor's stuff, 
You'll now hae unco slaisters
Whan windy blaws their stamacks puff,
They'll need baith pills an' plaisters
For tho' ev'now they look right bluff, 
Sic drinks, 'ere hillocks meet,

Will hap some deacons in a truff, 
Inrow'd in the lang leet O' death yon night.


TO THE PRINCIPAL AND PROFESSORS
OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ST. ANDREWS,
ON THEIR SUPERB TREAT TO DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON.

St. Andrews town may look right gawsy, 
Nae grass will grow upo' her cawsey, 
Nor wa'-flowers of a yellow dye, 
Glour dowy o'er her ruins high, 
Sin Samy's head weel pang'd wi' lear, 
Has seen the Alma mater there
Regents, my winsome billy boys ! 
'Bout him you've made an unco noise
Nae doubt for him your bells wad clink 
To find him upon Eden's brink,
An' a' things nicely set in order, 
Wad kep him on the Fifan border

I'se warrant now frae France an' Spain, 
Baith cooks and scullions mony ane 
Wad gar the pats an' kettles tingle 
Around the college kitchen ingle, 
To fleg frae a' your craigs the roup, 
Wi' reeking het and crieshy soup ; 
And snails and puddocks mony hunder 
Wad beeking lie the hearth-stane under, 
Wi' roast and boil'd, an' a' kin kind, 
To heat the body, cool the mind. 
But hear me lads ! gin I'd been there, 
How I wad trimm'd the bill o' fare !
For ne'er sic surly wight as he 
Had met wi' sic respect frae me. 
Mind ye what Sam, the lying loun !
Has in his Dictionar laid down ? 
That aits in England are a feast 
To cow an' horse, an' sican beast, 
While in Scots ground this growth was common
To gust the gab o' man and woman.
Tak tent, ye Regents ! then, an' hear 
My list o' gudely hameil gear, 
Sic as ha'e often rax'd the wyme
O' blyther fallows mony time
Mair hardy, souple, steive an' swank, 
Than ever stood on Samy's shank.

Imprimis, then, a haggis fat, 
Weel tottled in a seything pat, 
Wi' spice and ingans weel ca'd thro' 
Had help'd to gust the stirrah's mow, 
And plac'd itsel in truncher clean 
Before the gilpy's glowrin een. 
Secundo, then a gude sheep's head 
Whase hide was singit, never flead, 
And four black trotters cled wi' girsle, 
Bedown his throat had learn'd to hirsle. 
What think ye neist, o' gude fat brose 
To clag his ribs a dainty dose !
And white and bloody puddins routh, 
To gar the Doctor skirl, drouth !
Whan he cou'd never houp to merit 
A cordial glass o' reaming claret, 
But thraw his nose, and brize and pegh
O'er the contents o' sma' ale quegh
Then let his wisdom girn and snarl 
O'er a weel-tostit girdle farl, 
An' learn, that maugre o' his wame,
111 bairns are ay best heard at hame, 
Drummond, lang syne, o' Hawthornden, 
The wyliest an' best o' men, 
Has gi'en you dishes ane or mae, 
That wad ha' gard his grinders play, 
Not to Roast Beef, old England's life, 
But to the auld East Nook of Fife, 
Whare Creilian crafts cou'd weel ha'e gi'en 
Scate-rumples to ha'e clear'd his een

Than neist whan Samy's heart was faintin, 
He'd lang'd for scate to make him wanton. 
Ah ! willawins, for Scotland now, 
Whan she maun stap ilk birky's mow
Wi' eistacks, grown as 'tware in pet 
In foreign land, or greenhouse het, 
When cog o' brose an' cutty spoon
Is a' our cottar childer's boon,
Wha thro' the week, till Sunday's speal, 
Toil for pease-cods an' gude lang kail. 
Devall then, Sirs, and never send 
For daintiths to regale a friend, 
Or, like a torch at baith ends burning, 
Your house 'll soon grow mirk and mourning. 
What's this I hear some cynic say ?
Robin, ye loun ! its nae fair play
Is there nae ither subject rife 
To clap your thumb upon but Fife ?
Gi'e o'er, young man, you'll meet your corning,
Than caption war, or charge of horning
Some canker'd surly sour-mow'd carline 
Bred near the abbey o' Dumfarline, 
Your shoulders yet may gi'e a lounder, 
An' be of verse the mal-confounder. 
Come on, ye blades ! but ere ye tulzie, 
Or hack our flesh wi' sword or gulzie,

Ne'er shaw your teeth, nor look like stink, 
Nor o'er an empty bicker blink : 
What weets the wizen an' the wvme,
Will mend your prose and heal my rhyme.


ELEGY ON JOHN HOGG,
LATE PORTER TO THE UNIVERSITY OF ST. ANDREWS.

Death, what's ado ? the de'il be licket, 
Or wi' your stang ye ne'er had pricket,

Or our auld Alma Mater tricket O' poor John Hogg,
And trail'd him ben thro' your mirk wicket As dead's a log. 

Now ilka glaikit scholar loun 
May dander wae wi' duddy gown
Kate Kennedy 1 to dowy crune May mourn and clink, 
And steeples o' Saint Andrew's town To yird may sink.

Sin' Pauly Tarn, wi' canker'd snout,
First held the students in about 
To wear their claes as black as soot, They ne'er had reason,
Till death John's haffit ga'e a clout Sae out o' season. 

When regents met at common schools, 
He taught auld Tam to hale the dules, 
And eidant to row right the bowls Like ony emmack
He kept us a' within the rules Strict academic. 

Heh ! wha will tell the students now, 
To meet the Pauly cheek for chow,
Whan he, like frightsome wirrikow, Had wont to rail,

And set our stamacks in a low, Or we turn'd tail. 

Ah, Johnny ! aften did I grumble
Frae cozy bed fu' ear' to tumble
Whan art and part I'd been in some ill, Troth I was sweer, 
His words they brodit like a wumill Frae ear to ear. 

Whan I had been fu' laith to rise, 
John than begude to moralize : 
' The tither nap, the sluggard cries, " And turns him round ; 
" Sae spake auld Solomon the wise " Divine profound !

Nae dominie, or wise mess John,
Was better lear'd in Solomon ; 
He cited proverbs one by one Ilk vice to tame
He gar'd ilk sinner sigh an' groan, And fear hell's flame.

" I hae nae meikle skill, quo' he, 
" In what you ca' philosophy
" It tells that baith the earth and sea " Bin round about
" Either the Bible tells a he, Or you're a' out.

'' Its i' the psalms o' David writ. 
" That this wide warld ne'er shou'd flit, 
" But on the waters coshly sit Fu' steeve and lasting ; 

" An' was na he a head o' wit " At sic contesting !

On einings cauld wi' glee we'd trudge 
To heat our shins in Johnny's lodge
The de'il ane thought his bum to budge Wi' siller on us
To claw het pints we'd never grudge O' molationis. 

Say ye, red gowns ! that aften here
Ilae toasted bakes to Kattie's beer, 
Gin e'er thir days hae had their peer, Sae blyth, sae daft
You'll ne'er again in life's career Sit ha'f sae saft. 

Wi' haffit locks sae smooth and sleek, 
John look'd like ony antient Greek ; 
He was a Naz'rene a' the week, And doughtna tell out 
A bawbee Scots to straik his cheek Till Sunday fell out. 

For John ay lo'ed to turn the pence, 
Thought poortith was a great offence
" What recks tho" ye ken mood and tense ? " A Hungry wyme"
For gowd wad wi' them baith dispense " At ony time.

" Ye ken what ails ma'an ay befal
" The chiel that will be prodigal
" When wasted to the very spaul "He turns iris tusk.
" For want o' comfort to his saul " hungry husk ! 

Ye royit lowns ! just do as he'd do
For mony braw green shaw and meadow
He's left to cheer his dowy wide His winsome Kate. 
That to him prov'd a canny she-dow. Baith ear' and late.


A DRINK ECLOGUE
LANDLADY, BRANDY AND WHISKY. 

On auld worm-eaten skelf, in cellar dunk,
Whare hearty benders syn'd their drouthy trunk,
Twa chappin bottles, pang'd wi' liquor fu', 
Brandy the tane, the tither Whisky blue, 
Grew canker'd ; for the twa ware het within, 
An' het-skin'd fock to flyting soon begin
The Frenchman fizz'd, and first wad foot the field, 
While paughty Scotsman scorn'd to beenge or yield.


BRANDY
Black be your fa ! ye cottar loun mislear'd, 
Blawn by the porters, chairman, city-guard ; 
Ha'e ye nae breeding, that you cock your nose 
Anent my sweetly gusted cordial dose.
I've been near pauky courts, and aften there 
Ha'e ca'd hystericks frae the dowy fair
And courtiers aft gaed greening for my smack, 
To gar them bauldly glour, and gashly crack. 
The priest, to bang mishaunters black, and cares,
Has sought me in his closet for his prayers. 
What tig then takes the fates, that they can thole, 
Thrawart to fix me in this weary hole, 
Sair fash'd wi' din, wi' darkness, and-wi' stinks, 
Whare cheery day-light thro' the mirk ne'er blinks. 

WHISKY
But ye maun be content, and mauna rue, 
Tho' erst ye've bizz'd in bonny madam's mou'

Wi' thoughts like thae your heart may sairly dunt
The warld's now chang'd, it's no like use and wont
For here, wae's me ! there's nouther lord nor laird 
Come to get heartscad frae their stamack skair'd
Nae mair your courtier louns will shaw their face, 
For they glowr eiry at a friend's disgrace
But heeze your heart up—Whan at court you hear 
The patriot's thrapple wat wi' reaming beer; 
Whan chairman, weary wi' his daily gain, 
Can syn his whistle wi' the clear champaign
Be hopefu', for the time will soon row round,
Whan you'll nae langer dwall beneath the ground. 

BRANDY. 
Wanwordy gowk ! did I sae aften shine 
Wi' gowden glister thro' the chrystal fine, 
To thole your taunts, that seenil hae been seen 
A wa frae luggie, quegh, or truncher treein ; 
Gif honour wad but lat, a challenge shou'd 
Twin ye o' Highland tongue and Highland blude
Wi' cairds like thee I scorn to file my thumb,
For gentle spirits gentle breeding doom.

WHISKY
Truly I think it right you get your alms, 
Your high heart humbled amang common drams
Braw days for you, whan fools newfangle fain, 
Like ither countries better than their ain, 
For there ye never saw sic chancy days,
Sic balls, assemblies, operas, or plays
Hame-o'er langsyne you ha'e been blyth to pack 
Your a' upon a sarkless soldier's back
For you thir lads, as weel-lear'd trav'lers tell, 
Hae sell'd their sarks, gin sarks they'd had to sell, 

But worth gets poortith an' black burning shame, 
To draunt and drivel out a life at hame.
Alake ! the byword's o'er weel kend throughout,
" Prophets at hame are held in nae repute;"
Sae fair'st wi' me, tho' I can heat the skin, 
And set the saul upon a merry pin, 
Yet I am hameil, there's the sour mischance ! 
I'm no frae Turkey, Italy, or France
For now our gentles' gabbs are grown sae nice, 
At thee they toot, an' never speer my price
Witness—for thee they hight their tenants' rent, 
And fill their lands wi' poortith, discontent
Gar them o'er seas for cheaper mailins hunt, 
An' leave their ain as bare's the Cairn-o'-mount.

BRANDY
Tho' lairds take toothfu's o' my warming sap, 
This dwines nor tenants' gear, nor cows their crap
For love to you, there's mony a tenant gaes
Bare-ars'd and barefoot o'er the Highland braes : 
For you nae mair the thrifty gudewife sees 
Her lasses kirn, or birze the dainty cheese
Crummie nae mair for Jenny's hand will crune 
Wi' milkness dreeping frae her teats adown
For you o'er ear the ox his fate partakes,
And fa's a victim to the bludey aix.

WHISKY
Wha is't that gars the greedy Bankers prieve 
The maiden's tocher, but the maiden's leave
By you when spulzied o' her charming pose, 
She tholes in turn the taunt o' cauldrife joes
Wi' skelps like this fock sit but seenil down
To wether-gammond or how-towdy brown

Sair dung wi' dule, and fley'd for coming debt, 
They gar their mou'-bits wi' their incomes mett, 
Content eneugh gif they ha'e wherewithal
Scrimply to tack their body and their saul.

BRANDY.
Frae some poor poet, o'er as poor a pot, 
Ye've lear'd to crack sae crouse, ye haveril Scot
Or burgher politician, that embrues
His tongue in thee, and reads the claiking news ; 
But waes heart for you ! that for ay maun dwell 
In poet's garret, or in chairman's cell, 
While I shall yet on bien-clad tables stand, 
Bouden wi' a' the daintiths o' the land.

WHISKY
Troth I ha'e been 'ere now the poet's flame, 
And heez'd his sangs to mony blythsome theme. 
Wha was't gar'd Allie's l chaunter chirm fu' clear, 
Life to the saul, and music to the ear
Nae stream but kens, and can repeat the lay 
To shepherds streekit on the simmer brae, 
Wha to their whistle wi' the lav'rock bang, 
To wauken flocks the rural fields araang.

BRANDY
But here's the brouster-wife, and she can tell 
Wha's win the day, and wha shou'd wear the bell ; 
Ha'e done your din, an' lat her judgment join 
In final verdict 'twixt your pley and mine.

LANDLADY
In days o' yore I cou'd my living prize, 
Nor faush'd wi' dolefu' gaugers or excise
But now-a-days we're blyth to lear the thrift 
Our heads 'boon licence and excise to lift
Inlakes o' brandy we can soon supply
By whisky tinctur'd wi' the saffron's dye. 
Will you your breeding threep, ye mongrel loun ! 
Frae hame-bred liquor dy'd to colour brown 
So flunky braw, whan drest in master's claise, 
Struts to Auld Reikie's cross on sunny days,
Till some auld comerade, ablins out o' place, 
Near the vain upstart shaws his meagre face
Bumbaz'd he loups frae sight, and jooks his ken,
Fley'd to be seen amang the tassel'd train.

AN ECLOGUE.
'Twas e'ening whan the spreckled gowdspink sang, 
Whan new fa'an dew in blobs o' chrystal hang
Than Will and Sandie thought they'd wrought eneugh,
And loos'd their sair toil'd owsen frae the pleugh
Before they ca'd their cattle to the town, 
The lads to draw thir breath e'en sat them down ; 
To the stiff sturdy aik they lean'd their backs, 
While honest Sandie thus began the cracks.

SANDIE
Yence I could hear the laverock's shrill-tun'd throat, 
And listen to the clattering gowdspink's note
Yence I cou'd whistle cantilly as they, 
To owsen, as they till'd my raggit clay

But now I wou'd as leive maist lend my lugs 
To tuneless puddocks croakin i' the boggs
I sigh at hame, a-field am dowie too, 
To sowf a tune, I'll never crook my mou.

WILLIE
Foul fa me gif your bridal had na been 
Nae langer bygane than sin Hallow-e'en,
I cou'd hae tell'd you but a warlock's art, 
That some daft lightlyin quean had stow'n your heart
Our beasties here will take their e'ening pluck, 
An' now sin Jock's gane hame the byres to muck,
Fain wou'd I houp my friend will be inclin'd 
To gie me a' the secrets o' his mind
Heh ! Sandie, lad, what dool's come owr ye now, 
That you to whistle ne'er will crook your mou.

SANDIE
Ah ! Willie, Willie, I may date my wae, 
Frae what beted me on my bridal day
Sair may I rue the hour in which our hands 
Were knit thegither in the haly bands
Sin that I thrave sae ill, in troth I fancy,
Some fiend or fairy, nae sae very chancy, 
Has driven me by pauky wiles uncommon,
To wed this flyting fury of a woman.

WILLIE
Ah ! Sandie, aften hae I heard you tell, 
Amang the lasses a' she bure the bell
And say, the modest glances o' her ein 
Far dang the brightest beauties o' the green
You ca'd her ay sae innocent, sae young,
I thought she keut na how to use her tongue.

SANDIE
Before I married her, I'll take my aith, 
Her tongue was never louder than her breath
But now its turn'd sae souple and sae bauld, 
That Job himself cou'd scarcely thole the scauld.

WILLIE
Lat her yelp on, be you as calm's a mouse, 
Nor lat your whisht be heard into the house ; 
Do what she can, or be as loud's she please, 
Ne'er mind her flytes but set your heart at ease,
Sit down and blaw your pipe, nor faush your thumb,
An' there's my hand she'll tire, and soon sing dumb
Sooner shou'd winter cald confine the sea, 
An' lat the sma'est o' our burns rin free
Sooner at Yule- day shall the birk be drest, 
Or birds in sapless busses big their nest, 
Before a tonguey woman's noisy plea 
Shou'd ever be a cause to dantan me.

SANDIE. 
Weel cou'd I this abide, but oh ! I fear
I'll soon be twin'd o' a' my warldly gear
My kirnstaff now stands gizzand at the door, 
My cheese-rack toom that ne'er was toom before ; 
My ky may now rin rowting to the hill, 
And on the nakit yird their milkness spill
She seenil lays her hand upon a turn, 
Neglects the kebbuck, and forgets the kirn
I vow my hair-mould milk would poison dogs, 
As it stands lapper'd in the dirty cogs. 
Before the seed I sell'd my ferra cow, 
An' wi' the profit coft a stane o' woo'

I thought, by priggin, that she might hae spun 
A plaidie, light, to screen me frae the sun

But though the siller's scant, the cleedin dear, 
She has na ca'd about a wheel the year. 
Last ouk but ane I was frae hame a day.
Buying a threave or twa o' bedding strae
O' ilka thing the woman had her will, 
Had fouth o' meal to bake, and hens to kill
But hyn awa' to Edinbrough scoured she 
To get a making o' her fav'rite tea ; 
And 'cause I left her not the weary clink,
She sell't the very trunchers frae my bink.

WILLIE
Her tea ! ah ! wae betide sic costly gear, 
Or them that ever wad the price o't spear. 
Sin my auld gutcher first the warld knew,
Fouk had na fund the Indies, whare it grew.
I mind mysell, its nae sae lang sin syne, 
Whan Auntie Marion did her stamack tyne, 
That Davs our gardener came frae Apple-bog
g, An' gae her tea to tak by way o' drog.

SANDIE
Whan ilka herd for cauld his fingers rubbs, 
An' cakes o' ice are seen upo' the dubbs
At morning, whan frae pleugh or fauld I come,
I'll see a braw reek rising frae my lum, 
An' ablins think to get a rantin blaze 
To fley the frost awa' an' toast my taes
But whan I shoot my nose in. ten to ane
If I weelfardly see my ane hearthstane

She round the ingle with her gimmers sits, 
Crammin their gabbies wi' her nicest bits, 
While the gudeman out-by maun fill his crap 
Frae the milk coggie, or the parritch cap.

WILLIE
Sandie, gif this were ony common plea,
I shou'd the lealest o' my counsel gie ; 
But mak or meddle betwixt man and wife,
Is what I never did in a' my life. 
It's wearin on now to the tail o' May,
An' just between the bear seed and the hay
As lang's an orrow morning may be spar'd, 
Stap your wa's east the haugh, an' tell the laird
For he 's a man weel vers'd in a' the laws, 
Kens baith their outs and ins, their cracks and flaws, 
An' ay right gleg, whan things are out o' joint, 
At sattlin o' a nice or kittle point. 
But yonder's Jock, he'll ca' your owsen hame,
And tak thir tidings to your thrawart dame, 
That ye're awa' ae peacefu' meal to prie, 
And take your supper kail or sowens wi' me.

VERSES ON VISITING DUMFRIES.

The gods, sure, in some canny hour, 
To bonny Nith ha'e ta'en a tour, 
Where bonny blinks the cawler flow'r, Beside the stream
And, sportive, there ha'e shawn their pow'r In fairy dream

Had Kirkhill here but kent the gaet, 
The beauties on Dumfries that wait, 
He'd never turn'd his canker'd pate, O' satire keen,
When ilka thing's sae trig and feat To please the een.

I ken, the stirrah loo'd fu' weel 
Amang the drinking loons to reel
On claret brown or porter sweel, Whilk he cou'd get
After a shank o' beef he'd peel, His craig to whet.

Marshals and Bushbys then had fund 
Some kitchen gude to lay the grund,
And Cheshire mites wi' skill to hund, And fley awa' 
The heart-scad, and a scud o' wund Frae stamack raw

Had Horace liv'd, that pleasant sinner, 
Wha lov'd gude wine to synd his dinner, 
His muse, though dowf, the deil be in her, Wi' blithest sang, 
The drink wad round Parnassus rin her Ere it were lang

Nae mair he'd sung to auld Mecaenas 
The blinking een o' bonny Venus
His leave at ance he wud ha'e ta'en us For claret here, 
Which Jove and a' his gods still rain us Frae year to year

! Jove, man ! gie's some orro pence, 
Mair siller, and a wee mair sense.
I'd big to you a rural spence, And bide a' simmer
And cauld frae saul and body fence Wi' frequent brimmer!


TO MY AULD BREEKS

Now gae your wa's—Tho' anes as gude 
As ever happit flesh and blude, 
Yet part we maun—The case sae hard is, 
Amang the writers and the bardies, 
That lang they'll brook the auld I trow, 
Or neibours cry, " Weel brook the new" 
Still making tight wi' tither steek, 
The tither hole, the tither eik, 

To bang the birr o' winter's anger. 
And had the hurdies out o' langer. 
Sicklike some weary wight will fill 
His kyte wi' drogs frae doctor's bill, 
Thinking to tack the tither year 
To life, and look baith haill an' fier, 
Till at the lang-run death dirks in, 
To birze his saul ayont his skin. 
You needna wag your duds o' clouts, 
Nor fa' into your dorty pouts, 
To think that erst you've hain'd my tail 
Frae wind and weet, frae snaw and hail, 
And for reward, whan bald and hummil,
Frae garret high to dree a tumble. 
For you I car'd, as lang's ye dow'd 
Be lin'd wi' siller or wi' gowd : 
Now to befriend, it wad be folly, 
Your raggit hide an' pouches holey
For wha but kens a poet's placks 
Get mony weary flaws an' cracks, 
And canna thole to hae them tint, 
As he sae seenil sees the mint ? 
Yet round the warld keek and see, 
That ithers fare as ill as thee
For weel we lo'e the chiel we think 
Can get us tick, or gie us drink,
Till o' his purse we've seen the bottom,
Then we despise, and ha'e forgot him. 
Yet gratefu' hearts, to make amends,
Will ay be sorry for their friends, 
And I for thee—As mony a time Wi' you 
I've speel'd the braes o' rime,
Whare for the time the Muse ne'er cares 
For siller, or sic guilefu' wares,


Wi' whilk we drumly grow, and crabbit, 
Dowr, capernoited, thrawin gabbit,
And brither, sister, friend and fae, 
Without remeid of kindred, slae. 
You've seen me round the bickers reel
Wi' heart as hale as temper'd steel, 
And face sae apen, free and blyth, 
Nor thought that sorrow there cou'd kyth ; 
But the niest moment this was lost, 
Like gowan in December's frost. 
Cou'd Prick-the-house but be sae handy 
To make the breeks and claise to stand ay, 
Thro' thick and thin wi' you I'd dash on, 
Nor mind the folly of the fashion : 
But hegh ! the times vicissitude
Gars ither breeks decay as you do. 
Thae Macaronies, braw and windy,
Maun fail Sic transit gloria mundi ! 
Now speed you to some madam's chaumer, 
That butt an' ben rings dule an' claumer,
Ask her, in kindness, if she seeks 
In hidling ways to wear the breeks ? 
Safe you may dwall, tho' mould and motty, 
Beneath the veil o' under coatie, 
For this mair faults nor yours can screen 
Frae lover's quickest sense, his ein.

Or if some bard in lucky times,
Shou'd profit meikle by his rhimes,
And pace awa', wi' smirky face, 
In siller or in gowden lace,
Glowr in his face, like spectre gaunt,
Remind him o' his former want, 
To cow his daffin and his pleasure,
And gar him live within the measure. 
So Philip, it is said, who wou'd ring
O'er Macedon a just and gude king,
Fearing that power might plume his feather 
And bid him stretch beyond the tether, 
Ilk morning to his lug wad ca' 
A tiny servant o' his ha', 
To tell him to improve his span, 
For Philip was, like him, a man.

AULD REIKIE.

Auld Reikie ! wale o' ilka town
That Scotland kens beneath the moon

Whare couthy chiels at e'ening meet
Their bizzing craigs and mou's to weet
And blythly gar auld Care gae bye 
Wi' blinkit and wi' bleering eye : 
O'er long frae thee the Muse has been
Sae frisky on the simmer's green, 
Whan flowers and gowans wont to glent 
In bonny blinks upo' the bent
But now the leaves o' yellow die, 
Peel'd frae the branches, quickly fly ; 
And now frae nouther bush nor brier 
The speckled mavis greets your ear
Nor bonny blackbird skims and roves 
To seek his love in yonder groves. 
Then, Reikie, welcome ! Thou canst charm
Unfleggit by the year's alarm ; 
Not Boreas, that sae snelly blows, 
Dare here pap in his angry nose
Thanks to our dads, whase biggin stands 
A shelter to surrounding lands. 
Now morn, with bonny purpie-smiles, 
Kisses the air-cock o' St. Giles
Rakin their ein, the servant lasses 
Early begin their lies and clashes
Ilk tells her friend of saddest distress, 
That still she brooks frae scoulin' mistress

And wi' her joe in turnpike stair 
She'd rather snuff the stinkin' air, 
As be subjected to her tongue,
When justly censur'd in the wrong. 
On stair wi' tub, or pat in hand,
The barefoot housemaids loe to stand, 
That antrin fock may ken how snell 
Auld Reikie will at morning smell
Then, with an inundation big as 
The burn that 'neath the Nore Loch brig is, 
They kindly shower Edina's roses, 
To quicken and regale our noses. 
Now some for this, wi' satyr's leesh, 
Ha'e gi'en auld Edinburgh a creesh
But without souring nocht is sweet
The morning smells that hail our street, 
Prepare, and gently lead the way
To simmer canty, braw and gay
Edina's sons mair eithly share 
Her spices and her dainties rare, 
Than he that's never yet been call'd 
Aff frae his plaidie or his fauld. 
Now stairhead critics, senseless fools, 
Censure their aim, and pride their rules, 
In Luckenbooths, wi' glowring eye, 
Their neighbours sma'est faults descry
If ony loun shou'd dander there, 
Of aukward gate, and foreign air,

They trace his steps, till they can tell 
His pedigree as weel's himsell. 
Whan Phoebus blinks wi' warmer ray, 
And schools at noonday get the play, 
Then bus'ness, weighty bus'ness, comes
The trader glours ; he doubts, he hums
The lawyers eke to Cross repair, 
Their wigs to shaw, and toss an air
While busy agent closely plies, 
And a' his kittle cases tries. 
Now Night, that's cunzied chief for fun,
Is wi' her usual rites begun
Thro' ilka gate the torches blaze, 
And globes send out their blinking rays. 
The usefu' cadie plies in street, 
To bide the profits o' his feet
For by thir lads Auld Reikie's fock 
Ken but a sample o' the stock
O' thieves, that nightly wad oppress, 
And make baith goods and gear the less. 
Near him the lazy chairman stands, 
And wats na how to turn his hands,
Till some daft birky, ranting fu', 
Has matters somewhere else to do
The chairman willing, gi'es his light 
To deeds o' darkness and o' night
It's never sax pence for a lift 
That gars thir lads wi' fu'ness rift
For they wi' better gear are paid,
And whores and culls support their trade. 
Near some lamp-post, wi' dowy face, 
Wi' heavy een, and sour grimace, 
Stands she that beauty lang had kend,
Whoredom her trade, and vice her end.

But see wharenow she wuns her bread, 
By that which Nature ne'er decreed
And sings sad music to the lugs, 
'Mang burachs o' damn'd whores and rogues. 
Whane'er we reputation loss, 
Fair chastity's transparent gloss, 
Redemption seenil kens the name
But a's black misery and shame.
Frae joyous tavern, reeling drunk, 
Wi' fiery phizz, and ein half sunk, 
Behald the bruiser, fae to a' 
That in the reek o's gardies fa'
Close by his side, a feckless race
O' macaronies shew their face, 
And think they're free frae skaith or harm,
While pith befriends their leaders arm
Yet fearfu' aften o' their maught,
They quatt the glory o' the faught 
To this same warrior wha led 
Thae heroes to bright honour's bed
And aft the hack o' honour shines 
In bruiser's face wi' broken lines
Of them sad tales he tells anon, 
Whan ramble and whan fighting's done
And, like Hectorian, ne'er impairs
The brag and glory o' his sairs. 
Whan feet in dirty gutters plash, 
And fock to wale their fitstaps fash
At night the macaroni drunk,
In pools or gutters aftimes sunk
Hegh ! what a fright he now appears, 
Whan he his corpse dejected rears ! 
Look at that head, and think if there 
The pomet slaister'd up his hair !

The cheeks observe, where now cou'd shine 
The scancing glories o' carmine ? 
Ah, legs ! in vain the silk-worm there 
Display'd to view her eidant care
For stink, instead of perfumes, grow, 
And clarty odours fragrant flow, 
Now some to porter some to punch,
Some to their wife, and some their wench,
Retire, while noisy ten-hours drum 
Gars a' your trades gae dandring home. 
Now mony a club, jocose and free, 
Gi'e a' to merriment and glee
Wi' sang and glass, they fley the pow'r
O' care that wad harass the hour
For wine and Bacchus still bear down
Our thrawart fortunes wildest frown
It maks you stark, and bauld, and brave, 
Ev'n whan descending to the grave. 
Now some, in Pandemonium's shade, 
Resume the gormandizing trade
Whare eager looks, and glancing ein, 
Forespeak a heart and stamack keen. 
Gang on, my lads ; it's lang sin syne 
We kent auld Epicurus' line
Save you the board wad cease to rise, 
Bedight wi' daintiths to the skies

And salamanders cease to swill 
The comforts of a burning gill. 
But chief, Cape ! we crave thy aid, 
To get our cares and poortith laid
Sincerity, and genius true, 
Of Knights have ever been the due
Mirth, music, porter deepest dy'd, 
Are never here to worth deny'd
And health, o' happiness the queen, 
Blinks bonny, wi' her smile serene. 
Tho' joy maist part Auld Reikie owns,
Efftsoons she kens sad sorrows frowns
What group is yon sae dismal grim, 
Wi' horrid aspect, deeding dim ? 
Says Death, They'r mine, a dowy crew, 
To me they'll quickly pay their last adieu. 
How come mankind, whan lacking woe, 
In saulie's face their heart to show, 
As if they were a clock, to tell 
That grief in them had rung her bell ? 
Then, what is man ? why a' this phraze ? 
Life's spunk decay'd, nae mair can blaze, 
Let sober grief alone declare 
Our fond anxiety and care
Nor let the undertakers be 
The only waefu' friends we see. 
Come on, my muse, and then rehearse 
The gloomiest theme in a' your verse
In morning, whan ane keeks about, 
Fu' blyth and free frae ail, nae doubt 
He lippens not to be misled 
Amang the regions of the dead

But straight a painted corp he sees, 
Lang streekit 'neath its canopies. 
Soon, soon will this his mirth controul, 
And send damnation to his soul
Or when the dead-deal, (awful shape !) 
Makes frighted mankind girn and gape,
Reflection then his reason sours, 
For the niest dead-deal may be ours. 
Whan Sybil led the Trojan down
To haggard Pluto's dreary town,
Shapes war nor thae, I freely ween,
Cou'd never meet the soldier's ein. 
If kail sae green, or herbs, delight, 
Edina's street attracts the sight
Not Covent-garden, clad sae braw,
Mair fouth o' herbs can eithly shaw
For mony a yeard is here sair sought, 
That kail and cabbage may be bought
And healthfu' sallad to regale, 
Whan pamper'd wi' a heavy meal. 
Glour up the street in simmer morn, 
The birks sae green, and sweet brier-thorn, 
Wi' spraingit flow'rs that scent the gale, 
Ca' far awa' the morning smell, 
Wi' which our ladies flow'r-pat's fill'd, 
And every noxious vapour kill'd. 
Nature ! canty, blyth and free, 
Whare is there keeking-glass like thee 
Is there on earth that can compare
Wi' Mary's shape, and Mary's air,

Save the empurpled speck, that glows 
In the saft faulds of yonder rose ?
How bonny seems the virgin breast. 
Whan by the lilies here carest,
And leaves the mind in doubt to tell 
Which maist in sweets and hue excel 
Gillespies' snuff should prime the nose 
Of her that to the market goes,
.If they wad like to shun the smells 
That buoy up frae market cells
Whare wames o' paunches sav'ry scent 
To nostrils gi'e great discontent. 
Now wha in Albion could expect
O' cleanliness sic great neglect ? 
Nae Hottentot that daily lairs 
'Mang tripe, or ither clarty wares, 
Hath ever yet conceiv'd, or seen 
Beyond the line, sic scenes unclean. 
On Sunday here, an alter'd scene
O' men and manners meets our ein : 
Ane wad maist trow some people chose 
To change their faces wi' their clo'es, 
And fain wad gar ilk neighbour think 
They thirst for goodness, as for drink : 
But there's an unco dearth o' grace, 
That has nae mansion but the face,

And never can obtain a part 
In benmost corner of the heart. 
Why should religion make us sad,
If good frae virtue's to be had 
Na, rather gleefu' turn your face
Forsake hypocrisy, grimace
And never have it understood 
You fleg mankind frae being good. 
In afternoon, a' brawly buskit,
The joes and lasses loe to frisk it
Some take a great delight to place
The modest bongrace l o'er the face ; 
Tho' you may see, if so inclin'd, 
The turning o' the leg behind. 
Now Comeley-garden and the Park 
Refresh them after forenoon's wark ; 
Newhaven, Leith, or Canonmills,
Supply them in their Sunday's gills
Whare writers aften spend their pence, 
To stock their heads wi' drink and sense.
While dandring cits delight to stray 
To Castlehill, or public way, 
Whare they nae other purpose mean, 
Than that fool cause o' being seen


Let me to Arthur's Seat pursue, 
Whare bonny pastures meet the view
And mony a wild-lorn scene accrues,
Befitting Willie Shakespeare's muse
If Fancy there would join the thrang, 
The desart rocks and hills amang, 
To echoes we should lilt and play, 
And gi'e to mirth the lee-lang day. 
Or shou'd some canker'd biting show'r 
The day and a' her sweets deflow'r, 
To Holy-rood-house let me stray, 
And gi'e to musing a' the day
Lamenting what auld Scotland knew
Bien days for ever frae her view : 
Hamilton, for shame ! the Muse
Would pay to thee her couthy vows, 
Gin ye wad tent the humble strain, 
And gie's our dignity again : 
For 0, waes me ! the thistle springs 
In domicile of ancient kings,
Without a patriot, to regrete 
Our palace, and our ancient state. 
Blest place ! whar debtors dayly run, 
To rid themselves frae jail and dun
Here, tho' sequester'd frae the din 
That rings Auld Reikie's wa's within,

Yet they may tread the sunny braes,
And brook Apollo's cheery rays
Glour frae St. Anthon's grassy height, 
O'er vales in simmer claise bedight, 
Nor ever hing their head, I ween, 
Wi' jealous fear o' being seen. 
May I, whanever duns come nigh,
And shake my garret wi' their cry, 
Scour here wi' haste, protection get, 
To screen mysell frae them and debt
To breathe the bliss of open sky,
And Simon Eraser's bolts defy. 
Now gin a lown should ha'e his clase 
In thread-bare autumn o' their days,
St. Mary,3 brokers' guardian saint, 
Will satisfy ilk ail and want
For mony a hungry writer there 
Dives down at night, wi' cleading bare, 
And quickly rises to the view 
A gentleman, perfyte and new.


Ye rich fock, look no wi' disdain 
Upon this ancient brokage lane, 
For naked poets are supplied
With what you to their wants deny'd. 
Peace to thy shade, thou wale o' men, 
Drummond ! relief to poortith's pain
To thee the greatest bliss we owe, 
And tribute's tear shall grateful flow
The sick are cur'd, the hungry fed, 
And dreams of comfort tend their bed : 
As lang as Forth weets Lothian's shore, 
As lang's on Fife her billows roar, 
Sae lang shall ilk whase country's dear, 
To thy remembrance gi'e a tear. 
By thee Auld Reikie thrave, and grew
Delightfu' to her childer's view : 
Nae mair shall Glasgow striplings threap
Their city's beauty and its shape, 
While our new city spreads around 
Her bonny wings on fairy ground. 
But provosts now that ne'er afford 
The smaest dignity to lord, 
Ne'er care tho' every scheme gae wild 
That Drummond's sacred hand has cull'd
The spacious brig neglected lies, 
Tho' plagu'd wi' pamphlets, dunn'd wi' cries

They heed not tho' destruction come
To gulp us in her gaunting womb.
O shame ! that safety canna claim 
Protection from a provost's name, 
But hidden danger lies behind 
To torture and to fleg the mind
may as weel bid Arthur's Seat 
To Berwick-law make gleg retreat, 
As think that either will or art 
Shall get the gate to win their heart
For politics are a' their mark,
Bribes latent, and corruption dark
If they can eithly turn the pence, 
Wi' city's good they will dispense
Nor care tho' a' her sons were lair'd 
Ten fathom i' the auld kirk-yard. 
To sing yet meikle does remain, 
Undecent for a modest strain
And since the poet's daily bread is 
The favour of the Muse or ladies, 
He downa like to gie offence 
To delicacy's bonny sense
Therefore the stews remain unsung, 
And bawds in silence drop their tongue.
Reikie, farewell ! I ne'er cou'd part 
Wi' thee but wi' a dowy heart
Aft frae the Fifan coast I've seen 
Thee tow'ring on thy summit green
So glowr the saints when first is given,
A fav'rite keek o' glore and heaven
On earth nae mair they bend their ein, 
But quick assume angelic mien ; 
So I on Fife wad glowr no more, 
But gallop to Edina's shore.


HORACE, ODE XL LIB. I. 

Ne'er fash your thumb what gods decree 
To be the weird o' you or me, 
Nor deal in cantrup's kittle cunning 
To speir how fast your days are running, 
But patient lippen for the best, 
Nor be in dowy thought opprest, 
Whether we see mair winters come 
Than this that spits wi' canker'd foam. 
Now moisten weel your geyzan'd wa's 
Wi' couthy friends and hearty blaws ; 
Ne'er lat your hope o'ergang your days, 
For eild and thraldom never stays : 
The day looks gash, toot aff your horn, 
Nor care yae strae about the morn.
Execution time: 0.084 seconds