For a' that, and a' that,

And twice as muckle's a' that; My dearest bluid, to do them guid, They're welcome till't for a' that.

RECITATIVO

So sung the bard- and Nansie's wa's
Shook wi' a thunder of applause,

Re-echo'd from each mouth :

They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd their duds, They scarcely left to co'er their fuds

To quench their lowan drouth.

Then owre again, the jovial thrang
The poet did request,

To loose his pack, an' wale a sang,

A ballad o' the best:

He, rising, rejoicing,

Between his twa Deborahs,

Looks round him, an' found them
Impatient for the chorus.

AIR

TUNE "Jolly mortals, fill your glasses.”

See the smoking bowl before us!

Mark our jovial, ragged ring! Round and round take up the chorus, And in raptures let us sing.

CHORUS.

A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty's a glorious feast!
Courts for cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the priest

II.

What is title? what is treasure?
What is reputation's care?

If we lead a life of pleasure,
"Tis no matter how or where.
A fig, &c.

III.

With the ready trick and fable,
Round we wander all the day;
And at night, in barn or stable,
Hug our doxies on the hay.
A fig, &c.

IV.

Does the train-attended carriage
Thro' the country lighter rove?
Does the sober bed of marriage
Witness brighter scenes of love
A fig, &c.

Life is all a variorum,

We regard not how it goes; Let them cant about decorum, Who have characters to lose. A fig, &c.

VI.

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets!
Here's to all the wand'ring train!
Here's our ragged brats and callets!
One and all cry out, Amen!

A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty's a glorious feast!
Courts for cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the priest

DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK.

A TRUE STORY.

SOME books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn'd:
Ev'n ministers, they hae been kenn'd,
In holy rapture,

A rousing whid, at times to vend,
And nail't wi' Scripture.

But this that I am gaun to tell,
Which lately on a night befell,
Is just as true's the Deil's in h-ll
Or Dublin city;

That e'er he nearer comes oursel'

'S a muckle pity.

The Clachan yill had made me canty,
I was nae fou, but just had plenty;

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay To free the ditches;

An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd ay Frae ghaists an' witches.

The rising moon began to glow'r
The distant Cumnock hills out owre;
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r,
I set mysel';

But whether she had three or four,
I could na tell.

I was come round about the hill,
An' todlin down on Willie's mill,
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill,
To keep me sicker;

Tho' leeward whyles, against my will,
I took a bicker.

I there wi' something did forgather,
That put me in an eerie swither;
An awfu' scythe, out owre ae shouther,
Clear dangling hang;

A three-tae'd leister on the ither

Lay, large an' lang.

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa,
The queerest shape that e'er I saw,
For fient a wame it had ava!

And then, its shanks,

They were as thin, as sharp, an' sma'
As cheeks o' branks!

"Guid e'en," quo' I; "Friend! hae ye been mawin When ither folk are busy sawin? "*

It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan',

But naething spak;

At length, says I, "Friend, whare ye gaun?
Will ye go back?"

It spak right howe

But be na fley'd."

"My name is Death!
Quo' I, "Guid faith!

Ye're may be come to stap my breath,
But tent me, billie;

I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith,
See, there's a gully!"

"Guidman," quo' he, "put up your whittle,
I'm no design'd to try its mettle;
But if I did, I wad be kittle

To be mislear'd,

I wad na mind it, no that spittle

Out owre my beard."

"Weel, weel!" says I, "a bargain be't;
Come, gie's your hand, an' sae we're gree't,
We'll ease our shanks, an' tak a seat;
Come, gie's your news;

This whyle ye hae been monie a gate,
At monie a house."

"Ay, ay!" quo' he, an' shook his head,
"It's e'en a lang, lang time, indeed,
Sin' I began to nick the tread,

An' choke the breath:

This rencontre happened in seed time, 1785.

+ An epidemical fever was then raging in that country.