Begin then, dame, ye've drunk your fill,
You woudna hae the tither gill?

You'll trust me, mair would do you ill,

An' ding you doitet:

Troth 'twould be sair against my will

To hae the wyte o't.

Sing then, how, on the fourth of June,
Our bells screed aff a loyal tune,
Our ancient castle shoots at noon,

Wi' flag-staff buskit,

Frae which the soger blades come down.

To cock their musket.

Oh willawins! MONS MEG, for you,
'Twas firing crack't thy muckle mou;
What black mishanter gart ye spew

Baith gut and ga'!

I fear they bang'd thy belly fu’

Against the law.

Right seenil am I gi'en to bannin,
But, by my saul, ye was a cannon,
Cou'd hit a man had he been stannin

In shire o' Fife,

Sax lang Scots miles ayont Clackmannan,

An' tack his life.

The hills in terror wou'd cry out,
An' echo to thy dinsome rout;

The herds wou'd gather in their nowt,

That glowr'd wi' wonder,

Haflins afley'd to bide thereout

To hear thy thunder.

Sing likewise, Muse, how blue-gown bodies,
Like scar-scraws new ta'en down frae woodies,
Come here to cast their clouted duddies,
An' get their pay :

Than them what magistrates mair proud is
On king's birth-day?

On this great day the city-guard,

In military art weel lear❜d,

Wi' powder'd pow and shaven beard,

Gang thro' their functions,

By hostile rabble seldom spar'd

O' 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 an' round the serpents whiz,
Wi' hissing wrath and angry phiz;
Sometimes they catch a gentle gizz,
Alack-a-day!

An' singe wi' hair-devouring bizz,
Its curls away.

Shou'd th' owner patiently keek round,
To view the nature o' his wound,
Dead pussie, draggled thro' the pond,
Taks him a lounder,

Whilk lays his honour on the ground
As flat's a flounder.

The Muse maun also now implore
Auld wives to steek ilk hole an' bore!
If badrains slip but to the door.

I fear, I fear,

She'll nae lang shank upo' all four

This time o' year.

Neist day ilk hero tells his news,
O' crackit crowns and broken brows,
An' deeds that here forbid the Muse

Her theme to swell,

Or time mair precious 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.

Happy the man who, free from care and strife,
In silken or in leathern purse retains

A splendid shilling. He nor hears with pain
New OYSTERS cry'd, nor sighs for cheerful ale.

PHILLIPS.

O'A' the waters that can hobble
A fishing yole or sa'mon coble.
An' can reward the fisher's trouble,
Or south or north,

There's nane sae spacious an' sae noble
As Frith o' Forth.

In her the skate an' codlin sail,
The eel fu' souple wags her tail,
Wi' herrin, fleuk, and mackarel,

An' whitens dainty:

Their spindle-shanks the labsters trail,
Wi' partans plenty.

AULD REIKIE's sons blithe faces wear;
September's merry month is near,
That brings in Neptune's caller cheer,

New oysters fresh: