"The benmost part o' my kist-nook

"I'll ripe for thee,

"An' willin' ware my hindmost rook

"For my decree."

But law's a draw-well unco deep,
Withouten rim fouk out to keep;
A donnart chiel, when drunk, may dreep
Fu' sleely in,

But finds the gate baith stey an' steep,
Ere out he win.

THE RISING OF THE SESSION.

To a' men livin' be it kend,

The Session now is at an end.

Writers! your finger nebs unbend,

An' quat the pen,

Till time, wi' lyart pow, shall send

Blithe June again.

Tir'd o' the law, an' a' its phrases,
The wily writers, rich as Croesus,
Hurl frae the town in hackney chaises,
For country cheer:

The powny that in Spring-time grazes,
Thrives a' the year.

Ye lawyers! bid fareweel to lies;-
Fareweel to din ;-fareweel to fees:-
The canny hours o' rest may please,
Instead o' siller;

Hain'd mu'ter hauds the mill at ease,
An' fends the miller.

Blithe they may be wha wanton play
In Fortune's bonny blinkin' ray:
Fu' weel can they ding dool away

Wi' comrades couthy,

An' never dree a hungert day,

Or e'enin' drouthy.

Ohon the day! for him that's laid
In dowie poortith's cauldrife shade;
Aiblins owre honest for his trade,

He racks his wits

How he may get his buik weel clad,
An' fill his guts.

The farmers' sons, as yap as sparrows, Are glad, I trow, to flee the barras, An' whistle to the pleugh an' harrows, At barley seed:

What writer wadna gang as far as

He cou'd for bread?

After their yokin, I wat weel,
They'll stoo the kebbuck to the heel;
Eith can the pleugh-stilts gar a chiel
Be unco vogie

Clean to lick aff his crowdie-meal,

An' scart his cogie.

Now mony a fallow's dung adrift
To a' the blasts beneath the lift;
An' though their stamack's aft in tift

In vacance time,

Yet seenil do they ken the rift

O' stappit wame.

Now, if a Notar shou'd be wanted,

You'll find the pillars gayly planted:

An' weightiest matters covenanted
For half a gill.

Naebody taks a mornin' drib

O' Holland gin frae Robin Gibb;
And, though a dram to Rob's mair sib
Than is his wife,

He maun tak time to daut his rib,
Till siller's rife.

This vacance is a heavy doom
On Indian Peter's coffee-room,
For a' his china pigs are toom;

Nor do we see

In wine the sucker biskets soum,

As light's a flee.

But stop, my Muse! nor mak a maen;
Pate doesna fend on that alane;

He can fell twa dogs wi' ae bane,

While ither fouk

Maun rest themsels content wi' ane,

Nor farer troke.

Ye changehouse keepers! never grumble; Though you a while your bickers whumble, Be unco patientfu' an' humble,

Nor mak a din,

Though good joot binna kend to rumble
Your wame within.

You needna grudge to draw your breath
For little mair than half a wraith;

Then, if we a' be spar'd frae death, We'll gladly prie

Fresh noggins o' your reamin' graith Wi' blithsome glee.

LEITH RACES.

IN July month, ae bonny morn,
When Nature's rokelay green
Was spread owre ilka rig o' corn,
To charm our rovin' een;
Glowrin about, I saw a quean,
The fairest 'neath the lift;
Her een were o' the siller sheen,
Her skin, like snawy drift,

Sae white that day.

Quo' she, "I ferly unco sair,
That shou'd musin' gae;

ye

Ye wha hae sung o' Hallowfair,

Her winter pranks an' play; When on Leith sands the racers rare Wi' Jocky louns are met, Their orra pennies there to ware,

An' drown themsels in debt

Fu' deep that day."

An' wha are ye, my winsome dear,
That taks the gate sae early?
Where do ye win, if ane may speir;

For I right meikle ferly,

That sic braw buskit laughin' lass

Thir bonny blinks shou'd gie,

An' loup, like Hebe, owre the grass,

As wanton, an' as free

Frae dool this day?

"I dwall amang the cauler springs That weet the Land o' Cakes, An' aften tune my canty strings

At bridals an' late-wakes.

They ca' me MIRTH ;-I ne'er was kend To grumble or look sour;

But blithe wad be a lift to lend,

If ye wad sey my power

An' pith this day."

A bargain be't; an' by my fegs!
If ye will be my mate,

Wi' you I'll screw the cheery pegs;

Ye shanna find me blate:

We'll reel an' ramble through the sands,

An' jeer wi' a' we meet:

Nor hip the daft an' gleesome bands

That fill Edina's street

Sae thrang this day.

Ere servant-maids had wont to rise
To seethe the breakfast kettle,
Ilk dame her brawest ribbons tries,
To put her on her mettle,
Wi' wiles some silly chiel to trap,
(An' troth he's fain to get her ;)
But she'll craw kniefly in his crap,
When, wow! he canna flit her
Frae hame that day.

Now, mony a scaw'd an' bare-ars'd loun Rise early to their wark: