CAULER WATER.

WHEN father Adie first pat spade in
The bonny yard o' ancient Eden,
His amry had nae liquor laid in

To fire his mou;

Nor did he thole his wife's upbraidin',
For bein' fou.

A cauler burn o' siller sheen,
Ran cannily out-owre the green;

An' when our gutcher's drouth had been
To bide right sair,

He loutit down, and drank bedeen

A dainty skair.

His bairns had a', before the flood,
A 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' drinkin' wine.

The fuddlin' bardies, now-a-days,
Rin maukin-mad in Bacchus' praise;
And limp and stoiter through 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 thinkin' on't,

When eithly she can find the theme
O' aquafont.

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 sic clitter-clatter;
And, briefly to expound the matter,
It shall be ca'd gude Cauler Water;

Than whilk, I trow,

Few drugs in doctors' shops are better
For me or you.

Though joints be stiff as ony rung,
Your pith wi' pain be sairly dung,
Be you in Cauler Water flung

Out-owre the lugs,

'Twill mak you souple, swack and young, Withouten drugs.

Though cholic or the heart-scad teaze us;
Or ony inward dwaam shou'd seize us;
It masters a' sic fell diseases

That wou'd ye spulzie,

And brings them to a canny crisis

Wi' little tulzie.

Were't no for it, the bonny lasses
Wad glowr nae mair in keekin-glasses;
An' soon tyne dint o' a' the graces

That aft conveen

In gleefu looks, an' bonny faces,

To catch our een.

The fairest, then, might die a maid,
An' Cupid quit his shootin' trade;
For wha, through clarty masquerade,
Cou'd then discover

Whether the features under shade

Were worth a lover?

As Simmer rains bring Simmer flowers,
And leaves to cleed the birken bowers;
Sae beauty gets by cauler showers

Sae rich a bloom,

As for estate, or heavy dowers,

Aft stands in room.

What maks Auld Reekie's dames sae fair? It canna be the halesome air;

But cauler burn, beyond compare,

The best o' ony,

That gars them a' sic graces skair,

An' blink sae bonny.

On Mayday, in a fairy ring,

We've seen them round St Anthon's spring, Frae grass the cauler dew-draps wring

To weet their een,

An' water, clear as crystal spring,

To synd them clean.

O may they still pursue the way
To look sae feat, sae clean, sae gay!
Then shall their beauties glance like May;

And, like her, be

The goddess of the vocal spray,

The Muse, an' mè.

THE SITTING OF THE SESSION.

PHŒBUS, Sair cow'd wi' Simmer's hight, Cours near the yird wi' blinkin' light; Cauld shaw the haughs, nae mair bedight Wi' Simmer's claes,

Which heese the heart o' dowie wight That through them gaes.

Weel leese me o' you, business, now;
For ye'll weet mony a drouthy mou,
That's lang a-gizzenin gane for you,
Withouten fill

O' dribbles frae the gude brown cow,
Or Highland gill.

The Court o' Session, weel wat I,
Pits ilk chiel's whittle i' the pye;
Can criesh the slaw-gaun wheels when dry,
Till Session's done;

Though they'll gie mony a cheep an' cry,
Or twalt o' June.

Ye benders a'! that dwall in joot,
You'll tak your liquor clean cap out;
Synd your mouse-webs wi reamin stout,
While ye hae cash,

An' gar your cares a' tak the rout,

An' thumb ne'er fash.

Rob Gibb's gray gizz, new frizzled fine,
Will white as ony snaw-ba' shine;

Weel does he lo'e the lawen coin,

When dossied down,

For whisky gills, or dribs o' wine,

In cauld forenoon.

Bar-keepers! now at outer door,
Tak tent as fouk gang back an' fore;
The fient ane there but pays his score;
Nane wins toll-free;

Though ye've a Cause the House before,
Or agent be.

Gin ony, here, wi' canker knocks,
An' hasna lows'd his siller pocks,

Ye needna think to fleetch or coax ;

"Come shaw's your gear

"Ae scabbit yowe spills twenty flocks"Ye's no be here."

Now, at the door, they'll raise a plea :-
Crack on, my lads! for flytin's free ;
For gin ye shou'd tongue-tackit be,
The mair's the pity,
When scauldin but an' ben we see,
Pendente lile.

The lawyers' shelfs, an' printers' presses,
Grain unco sair wi' weighty cases;
The clerk in toil his pleasure places,

To thrive bedeen:

At five hours' bell scribes shaw their faces,

An' rake their een.

The country fouk to lawyers crook :"Ah, weels-me o' your bonny buik!