Nor seek for Helicon to wash us,

That heath'nish spring;

Wi' Highland whisky scour our hawses, An' gar us sing.

Begin, then, dame! ye've drunk your fill;
You wou'dna hae the tither gill?

You'll trust me, mair wou'd do you ill,
An' ding you doitet:

Troth, 'twou'd be sair against my will
To hae the wyte o't.

Sing, then, how on the fourth o' June
Our bells screed aff a loyal tune;
Our ancient castle shoots at noon,

Wi' flagstaff buskit,

Frae which the sodger blades come down To cock their musket.

Oh willawins! Mons Meg, for you;
'Twas firin' crack'd thy muckle mou;
What black mishanter gart ye spew

Baith gut an' ga'?

I fear, they bang'd thy belly fu',

Against the law.

Right seenil am I gien to bannin;
But, by my saul, ye was a cannon
Could hit a man, had he been stannin

In shire o' Fife,

Sax lang Scots miles ayont Clackmannan, An' tak his life.

The hills in terror wou'd cry out,

An' echo to thy dinsome rout;

The herds wou'd gather in their nowt,

That glowr'd wi' wonder,

Sing, likewise, Muse! how blue-gown bodies, Like scare-craws new taen down frae woodies, Come here to cast their clouted duddies,

An' get their pay:

Than them what magistrate mair proud is
On King's birth-day?

On this great day the City Guard,

In military art weel lear❜d,

Wi' powder'd pow, an' shaven beard,

Gang through their functions;

By hostile rabble seldom spar'd

O' clarty unctions.

O soldiers! for your ain dear sakes;
For Scotland's, alias Land o' Cakes;
Gie not her bairns sic deadly paiks,
Nor be sae rude,

Wi' firelock or lochaber aix,

As spill their blude.

Now round an' round the serpents whiz,
Wi' hissin' wrath and angry phiz;
Sometimes they catch a gentle gizz,

Alack-a-day!

An' singe, wi' hair-devouring bizz,

Its curls away.

Shou'd th' owner patiently keek round,
To view the nature o' his wound,
Dead pussie, draigled through the pond,
Taks him a lounder,

Which lays his honour on the ground

As flat's a flounder.

The Muse maun also now implore
Auld wives to steek ilk hole an' bore;
If baudrins slip but to the door,

I fear, I fear,

She'll no lang shank upo' all four

This time o' year.

Neist day ilk hero tells his news,
O' crackit crowns an' broken brows,
An' deeds that here forbid the Muse
Her theme to swell,

Or time mair precious to abuse,

Their crimes to tell;

She'll rather to the fields resort,
Where music gars the day seem short;
Where doggies play, an' lambies sport,
On gowany braes;

Where peerless fancy hauds her court,
And tunes her lays.

CAULER OYSTERS.

Happy the man, who, free from care and strife,
In silken or in leathern purse retains

A splendid shilling. He nor hears with pain
New oysters cry'd, nor sighs for cheerful ale.
Phillips.

O' a' the waters that can hobble
A fishing yole or sa'mon coble,

An' can reward the fisher's trouble,
Or south or north,

There's nane sae spacious an' sae noble,

As Frith o' Forth.

In her the skate an' codlin sail;
The eel, fu' souple, wags her tail;
Wi' herrin', fleuk, and mackarel,

An' whitens dainty ;

Their spindle-shanks the labsters trail,
Wi' partans plenty.

Auld Reikie's sons blythe faces wear;
September's merry month is near,
That brings in Neptune's cauler cheer,
New Oysters fresh ;

The halesomest and nicest gear,

O' fish or flesh.

O! then, we needna gie a plack
For dand'rin mountebank or quack,
Wha o' their drogs sae bauldly crack,

An' spread sic notions,

As gar their feckless patients tak

Their stinkin' potions.

Come, prie, frail man! for if thou art sick,

The Oyster is a rare cathartic,

As ever doctor patient gart lick

To cure his ails;

Whether you hae the head or heart-ache, It never fails.

Ye tipplers! open a' your poses;
Ye, wha are fash'd wi' plukie noses,
Fling owre your craig sufficient doses;

You'll thole a hunder,

To fleg awa your simmer roses,

An' naething under.

When big as burns the gutters rin, ye hae catch'd a droukit skin,

If

To Luckie Middlemist's loup in,

An' sit fu' snug

Owre Oysters an' a dram o' gin,

Or haddock lug.

When auld Saunt Giles, at aught o'clock, Gars merchant lowns their shopies lock, There we adjourn wi' hearty fouk

To birle our bodles,

An' get wharewi' to crack our joke,
An' clear our noddles.

When Phoebus did his winnocks steek,
How aften at that ingle cheek

Did I my frosty fingers beek,

An' prie good fare!

I trow, there was nae hame to seek,
When steghin there.

While glaikit fools, owre rife o' cash,
Pamper their wames wi' fousom trash,
I think a chiel' may gaily pass,

He's nae ill bodden,

That gusts his gab wi' Oyster-sauce,
An' hen weel sodden.

At Musselbrough, and eke Newhaven,
The fisherwives will get top livin',

When lads gang out on Sundays' even'
To treat their joes,

An' tak o' fat Pandores a prieven,

Or mussel brose.

Then, sometimes, ere they flit their doup,
They'll aiblins a' their siller coup
For liquor clear frae cutty stoup,

To weet their wizen,