In its auld lerroch yet the deas remains, ease; A warm and canny lean for weary banes O' lab'rers doil'd upon the wintry leas. Round him will baudrins and the collie come, To wag their tail, and cast a thankfu' ee To him wha kindly flings them mony a crum O'kebbuck whang'd, and dainty fadge to prie; This a' the boon they crave, and a' the fee. Frae him the lads their mornin 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 mu'ter to the thirlin mill. Neist, the gudewife her hirelin damsels bids Glowr thro' the byre, and see the hawkies bound; Tak 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, The cruizie too can only blink and bleer ; The restit ingle's done the maist it dow; Tacksman and cotter eke to bed maun steer, Upo' the cod to clear their drumly pow, Till wauken'd by the dawnin'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 cou'ter turn the glybe, 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 o' ails, and poortith freed ; And a lang lasting train o' peacefu' hours succeed! THE ELECTION. Nunc est bibendum, et bendere BICKERUM magnum ; Cavete TOWN-GUARDUM, DL G-DD-M atque C—PB-M. REJOICE, ye Burghers! ane and a'; Now ye may clap your wings and craw, And gayly busk ilk feather, For deacon cocks hae pass'd a law, To rax and weet your leather Wi' drink thir days. Haste, Epps! quo' John, and bring my giz ; Hae done your parritch, lassie Liz! I'se be as braw's the deacon is, Whan he taks affidavit O' faith the day. "Whare's Johnny gaun (cries neebour 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 muircock, And forth to mak a deacon, lass; The coat, ben-by i' the kist-nook, Menzies o' moths and flaes are shook, And i' the floor they howder, Till, in a birn, beneath the crook, To death that day. The canty cobler quats his sta', His roset and his lingans; His buik has dree'd a sair, sair fa', The lads, in order tak their seat; Fu' lang that day. The dinner done,-for brandy strang The grace is said ;--it's nae owre lang:- Quo' Deacon, "Let the toast round gang: 66 Come, Here's our Noble Sels "Weel met the day!" |