Hame-o'er langsyne you hae been blithe to pack Your a' upon a sarkless soldier's back;

For you thir lads, as weel-lear'd trav'llers tell, Had sell❜d their sarks, gin sarks they had to sell.

But Worth gets poortith an' black burnin shame,

To draunt and drivel out a life at hame.
Alake! the byword's owr weel kent throughout,

Prophets at hame are held in nae repute ;' Sae fair'st wi' me, tho' I can heat the skin, And set the saul upo' a merry pin,

Yet I am hameil; there's the sour mischance! I'm na frae Turkey, Italy, or France;

For now our gentles gabs are grown sae nice, At thee they tout, and never speer my price: Witness for thee they height their tenants rent, And fill their lands wi' poortith, discontent; Gar them o'er seas for cheaper mailins hunt, And leave their ain as bare's the Cairney mount.

BRANDY.

Tho' lairds tak toothfu's o' my warming sap, This dwines not tenants' gear, nor cows their

crap;

For love to you there's mony a tenant gaes Bare-ars'd and barefoot o'er the highland braes:

For you nae mair the thrifty gudewife sees Her lasses kirn, or birze the dainty cheese; Crummie nae mair for Jenny's hand will crune, Wi' milkness dreeping frae her teats adown: For you owre ear' the ox his fate partakes, And fa's a victim to the bluidy ax.

WHISKY.

Wha is't that gars the greedy bankers prieve
The maiden's tocher, but the maiden's leave :
By you whan spulzied o' her charming pose,
She tholes in turn the taunt o' cauldrife joes.
Wi' skelps like this fouk sit but seenil down
To wether-gammon, or howtowdy brown ;
Sair dung wi' dule, and fley'd for coming debt,
They gar
their mou'-bits wi' their incomes mett,
Content enough gif they hae wherewithal
Scrimply to tack their body and their saul.

BRANDY.

Frae some poor poet, o'er as poor a pot,
Ye've lear❜d to crack sae crouse, ye haveril Scot,
Or burgher politician, that embrues

His tongue in thee, and reads the claiking news.
But waes heart for you! that for ay maun dwell
In poet's garret, or in chairman's cell,
While I shall yet on bein-clad tables stand,
Boudin wi' a' the daintiths o' the land.

WHISKY.

Troth I hae been ere now the poet's flame,
And heez'd his sangs to mony blithesome theme.
Wha was't gar'd ALLIE's chaunter chirm fu'
clear,

Life to the saul, and music to the ear?
Nae stream but kens, and can repeat the lay,
To shepherds streekit on the simmer-brae,
Wha to their whistle wi' the lav'rock bang,
To wauken flocks the rural fields amang.

BRANDY.

But here's the browster-wife, and she can tell Wha's won the day, and wha shou'd bear the

bell :

Hae done your din, an' let her judgment join In final verdict 'twixt your plea and mine.

LANDLADY.

In days o' yore, I cou'd my living prize,
Nor fash'd wi' dolefu' gaugers or excise;
But now-a-days we're blithe to lear the thrift
Our heads 'boon licence and excise to lift
Inlakes o' Brandy we can soon supply
By Whisky tinctur'd wi' the saffron's dye.

Will you your breeding threep,

loun !

Frae hame-bred liquor dyed to c

;

So flunky braw, 'whan drest in maister's claise, Struts to Auld Reikie's cross on sunny days, Till some auld comrade, ablins out o' place, Near the vain upstart shaws his meagre face; Bumbaz'd he loups frae sight, and jooks his ken, Fley'd to be seen amang the tassel'd train.

LINES,

To the PRINCIPAL and PROFESSORS of the University of St Andrews, on their superb Treat to DR SAMUEL JOHNSON.

ST ANDREW's town may look right gawsy;
Nae grass will grow upo' her cawsey,
Nor wa'-flowers o' a yellow dye,
Glowr dowie owre her ruins high,
Sin' Samy's head, weel pang'd wi' lear,
Has seen the Alma Mater there.
Regents! my winsome billy boys!
'Bout him you've made an unco noise ;

Nae doubt, for him your bells wad clink,
To find him upon Eden's brink;
And a' things nicely set in order,
Wad keep him on the Fifan border.

I'se warrant, now, frae France and Spain
Baith cooks and scullions mony ane,
Wad gar the pats and kettles tingle
Around the college kitchen ingle,
To fleg frae a' your craigs the roup,
Wi' reekin het and crieshy soup:
And snails and puddocks mony hunder
Wad beekin lie the hearthstane under;
Wi' roast and boil'd, and a' kinkind,
To heat the body, cool the mind.

But hear, my lads! gin I'd been there,
How I'd hae trimm'd the bill o' fare!
For ne'er sic surly wight as he
Had met wi' sic respect frae me.
Mind ye what Sam, the lyin loun!
!`
Has in his Dictionar laid down?
That aits, in England, are a feast

To cow and horse, and sicken beast;

While, in Scots ground, this growth was com

mon

To gust the gab o' man and woman.

Tak tent, ye Regents! then, and hear
My list o' gudely hameil gear;

Rr