The lawyers' skelfs, and 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,
And rake their een.

The country fouk to lawyers crook-
"Ah, weels-me o' your bonnie buik!
The benmost part o' my kist-nook
I'll ripe for thee,

And willin, ware my hindmost rook
For my decree."

But law's a draw-well unco deep,
Withouten rim fouk out to keep;
A donnart chiel, when drunk may dreep
Fu' sleely in,

But finds the gate baith stey and steep,
Ere out he win.

THE RISING OF THE SESSION.

To a' men livin' be it kend,

The Session now is at an end,
Writers, your finger-nebs unbend,
And quat the pen,

Till Time, wi' lyart pow, shall send
Blythe June again.*

Tired o' the law, and a' its phrases,
The wily writers, rich as Cræsus,
Hurl frae the town in hackney chaises,
For country cheer:

The powny that in spring-time grazes,
Thrives a' the year.

*The summer session then commenced on the 12th of June.

Ye lawyers, bid fareweel to lies;
Fareweel to din; fareweel to fees:
The canny hours o' rest may please,
Instead o' siller;

Hain'd mu'ter hauds the mill at ease,
And fends the miller.

Blythe they may be wha wanton play
In Fortune's bonnie blinkin' ray;
Fu' weel can they ding dool away
Wi' comrades couthy,

And never dree a hungert day,
Or e'enin' drouthy.

Ohon the day! for him that's laid
In dowie poortith's cauldrife shade;
Aiblins owre 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,
And glad, I trow, to flee the barras,
And whistle to the pleugh and harrows
At barley seed:

What writer wadna gang as far as
He could for bread?

After their yokin, I wat weel,

They'll stoo the kebbuck to the heel;
Eith can the pleugh-stilts gar a chiel
Be unco vogie

Clean to lick aff his crowdie-meal,
And scart his cogie.

Now mony a fallow's dung adrift
To a' the blasts beneath the lift;
And though their stamack's aft in tift
In vacance time,

Yet seenil do they ken the rift

O' stappit wame.

Now, gin a notar should be wanted,
You'll find the Pillars* gaily planted:
For little thing protests are granted
Upon a bill,

And weightiest matters covenanted
For half a gill.

Naebody taks a mornin' drib
O' Holland gin frae Robin Gibb;
And, though a dram to Rob's mair sib
Than is his wife,

He maun tak time to daut his rib,
Till siller's rife.

This vacance is a heavy doom
On Indian Peter's coffee-room,†
For a' his china pigs are toom;
Nor do we see

In wine the sucker biskets soum,
As light's a flee.

But stop, my Muse! nor mak a mane;
Pate doesna fend on that alane;

* An arcade skirting the passage leading into the Parliament Close -a great haunt of low writers, as intimated in the text.

+ Peter Williamson, who, like Robin Gibb, kept a small tavern in the Outer House. He was a somewhat notable person, having been kidnapped in his boyhood from Aberdeen, and sold to a planter in the American colonies. Later he was stolen by Indian savages, among whom he lived for a number of years, and whose dresses and customs he afterwards exhibited before the citizens of Edinburgh. A little book describing his adventures, written by himself, has sold through many editions. Williamson, in 1772, compiled and published the first street directory for the Scottish capital. He also established a penny postal system for Edinburgh and its environs, ere yet had dawned the day of the national penny post. When the Government took the postal system into their own hands, they rewarded Peter with a pension for life. He died at Edinburgh, leaving behind him a good character, on the 19th January, 1799, aged sixty-nine. There is a portrait of him in Kay, in conversation with Bruce, the Abyssinian traveller.

He can fell twa dogs wi' ae bane,
While ither fouk

Maun rest themsel's content wi' ane,
Nor farer troke.

Ye change-house keepers, never grumble,
Though you a while your bickers whumble,
Be unco patientfu' and humble,
Nor mak' a din,

Though good joot binna ken'd to rumble

Your wame within.

You needna grudge to draw your breath
For little mair than half a reath;
Then, gin we a' be spared frae death,
We'll gladly prie

Fresh noggins o' your reamin' graith
Wi' blythesome glee.

LEITH RACES.*

IN July month, ae bonny morn,
When Nature's rokelay green
Was spread owre ilka rig o' corn,
To charm our rovin' een;
Glowrin' about, I saw a queen,
The fairest 'neath the lift;
Her een were o' the siller sheen,
Her skin like snawy drift,

Sae white that day.

*The opening stanzas of this poem have been greatly admired; and, it is quite apparent, served as a model to Burns in his composition of "The Holy Fair."

Quo' she, "I ferly unco sair,
That ye should musin' gae;
Ye wha hae sung o' Hallowfair,
Her winter's pranks and play;
When on Leith sands the racers rare
Wi' jockey louns are met,
Their orra pennies there to ware,
And drown themselves in debt

66

Fu' deep that day."

And wha are ye, my winsome dear,
That taks the gate sae early?
Where do ye win, gin ane may speir;
For I richt meikle ferly,

That sic braw buskit laughin' lass
Thir bonny blinks should gi'e,
And loup, like Hebe, owre the grass,
As wanton, and as free

Frae dool 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 ken'd

To grumble or look sour;

But blythe wad be a lift to lend,

Gif ye wad sey my power

And pith this day."

A bargain be't; and, by my fegs!
Gif ye will be my mate,

Wi'

you I'll screw the cheery pegs;

Ye shanna find me blate.

We'll reel and ramble through the sands,

And jeer wi' a' we meet:

Nor hip the daft and gleesome bands
That fill Edina's street

Sae thrang this day."