In Algebra weel skill'd he was, Rin owr surd roots but cracks or flaws; Weel vers'd was he in architecture, An' gar's tak heed; O' geometry he was the Hector; But now he's dead. Sae weel's he'd fley the students a', Wi' pith an' speed; We winna get a sport sae bra', Sin' Gregory's dead. Great 'casion hae we a' to weep, To tak 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 o' space, The bleer-ey'd sun, Wi' blinkin light and stealing pace, Frae naked groves nae birdie sings, To shepherd's pipe nae hillock rings, The breeze nae od'rous flavour brings Frae Borean cave, And dwynin Nature droops her wings, Wi' visage grave. Mankind but scanty pleasure glean 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, Baith warm and couth; While round they gar the bicker roll, To weet their mouth. Whan merry Yule-day comes, I trow, An' kickshaws, strangers to our view Ye browster wives, now busk ye bra', Mair precious than the well o' Spa, Then, tho' at odds wi' a' the warl', To spoil our glee, As lang's there pith into the barrel We'll drink an' 'gree. Fidlers, your pins in temper fix, Frae out your quorum, Nor fortes wi' pianos mix, Gie's Tulloch-Gorum. For nought can cheer the heart sae well 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 To crown our joy, Nor envy, wi' sarcastic sneer, Our bliss destroy. And thou, great god of Aqua Vitœ! Wha sways the empire o' this city, When fou we're sometimes capernoity, Be thou prepar'd To hedge us frae that black blanditti, The City-Guard. THE KING'S BIRTH-DAY, IN EDINBURGH. Oh! qualis hurly-burly fuit, si forte vidisses. POLEMO-MIDDINIA: I SING the day sae aften sung, But wow! the limmer's fairly flung; There's nathing in't. I'm fain to think the joy's the same Baith blind an' cripple, Forgather aft, O fy for shame! To drink an' tipple. O Muse, be kind, an' dinna fash us That heath'nish spring; Wi' Highland whisky scour our hawses, An' gar us sing. |