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Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox,
E'en cowe the caddie;
An' sportin lady.
Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's
Nine times a-week,
Wad kindly seek.
Could he some commutation broach,
Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue;
To tak their part,
She'll no desert.
An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,
An' kick your place,
Before his face.
God bless your Honors a' your days,
That haunt St. Jamie's ! Your humble Poet sings an' prays
While Rab his name is.
But blythe and frisky, She eyes her free-born, martial boys,
Tak aff their Whisky. What though their Phoebus kinder warms, While fragrance blooms and beauty charms! When wretches range, in famish'd swarms,
The scented groves, Or hounded forth, dishonour arms
In hungry droves. Their gun's a burden on their shouther; They downa bide the stink o' powther; Their bauldest thoughts a hank’ring swither
To stan' or rin,
To save their skin.
An' there's the foe,
Twa at a blow.
Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;
An' when he fa's,
In faint huzzas.
Sages their solemn een may steek,
In clime and season;
I'll tell the reason.
Scotland, my auld, respected Mither!
Ye tine your dam;
I Sir Adam Furguson. E.
3 A worthy old Hostess of the Author's in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies Politics over a glass of gude auld Scotch Drink.
THE HOLY FAIR.
Holy Fair is a common phrase in the West of Scotland for a sacramental occasion.
A robe of seeming truth and trust,
Hid crafty Observation;
The dirk of Defamation:
Dye-varying on the pigeon;
UPON a simmer Sunday morn,
When Nature's face is fair,
An' snuff the caller air.
Wi' glorious light was glintin;
Fu' sweet that day.
To see a scene sae gay,
Cam skelpin up the way;
But ane wi’ lyart lining;
Fu' gay that day.
The twa appear'd like sisters twin,
In feature, form, an' claes ! Their visage wither'd, lang, an' thin,
An' sour as ony slaes:
As light as ony lambie,
Fu' kind that day.
Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, 'Sweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken me;
But yet I canna name ye.'
An' taks me by the hands,
A screed some day.
• My name is Fun- -your
cronie dear, The nearest friend ye bae; An' this is Superstition here,
An' that's Hypocrisy. I'm gaun to
Holy Fair, To spend an hour in daffin: Gin ye'll go there, yon runkld pair, We will get famous laughin
At them this day.'