Eneugh to fley a muckle town,

Wi' dinsome squeel an' bark. "Here is the true an' faithfu' list O' Noblemen an' Horses;

Their eild, their weight, their height, their grist, That rin for plates or purses,

Fu' fleet this day."

To whisky plouks that brunt for ouks
On town-guard sodgers' faces,
Their barber bauld his whittle crooks,
An' scrapes them for the races.
Their stumps, erst us'd to philibegs,
Are dight in spatterdashes,

Whose barken'd hides scarce fend their legs
Frae weet an' weary plashes

O' dirt that day.

"Come, hafe a care (the Captain cries),
On guns your bagnets thraw;
Now mind your manual exercise,
An' marsh down raw by raw.'
An' as they march, he'll glowr about,
Tent a' their cuts an' scars;
'Mang them full mony a gawsy snout
Has gusht in birth-day wars,

Wi' blude that day.

"Her nainsel maun be carefu' now,
Nor maun she be mislear'd,
Sin' baxter lads hae seal'd a vow,
To skelp an' clout the Guard."
I'm sure Auld Reekie kens o' nane
That wou'd be sorry at it,

Though they shou'd dearly pay the kain,

An' get their tails weel sautit,

An' sair, thir days.

The tinkler billies i' the Bow,

Are now less eident clinkin,
As lang's their pith or siller dow,
They're daffin, an' they're drinkin'.
Bedown Leith-Walk, what bourrachs reel,
O' ilka trade an' station,

That gar their wives an' childer feel

Toom wames, for their libation
O' drink thir days!

The browster wives thegither harl
A' trash that they can fa' on;
They rake the grunds o' ilka barrel,
To profit by the lawen:

For weel wat they, a skin leal het
For drinkin' needs nae hire :
At drumbly gear they tak nae pet;
Foul water slockens fire,

An' drouth, thir days.

They say, ill ale has been the dead

O' mony a bierdly loon;

Then dinna gape like gleds, wi' greed,
To sweel hale bickers down.

Gin Lord send mony ane the morn,
They'll ban fu' sair the time
That e'er they toutit aff the horn,
Which wambles through their wame
Wi' pain that day.

The Buchan bodies, through the beach,
Their bunch o' Findrams cry;
An' skirl out bauld, in Norlan' speech,
"Guid speldins ;-fa will buy?"
An', by my saul, they're nae wrang gear
To gust a stirrah's mou;

Weel staw'd wi' them, he'll never speir

The price o' being fu'

Wi' drink that day.

Now wily wights at rowly-powl,

An' flingin' o' the dice,

Here break the banes o' mony a soul

Wi' fa's upo' the ice.

At first, the gate seems fair an' straught, Sae they haud fairly till her:

But, wow! in spite o' a' their maught, They're rookit o' their siller,

An' gowd, thir days.

Around, where'er you fling your een,
The hacks, like wind, are scourin':
Some chaises honest fouk contain;
An' some hae mony a whore in.
Wi' rose an' lily, red an' white,
They gie themsels sic fit airs,
Like Dian they will seem perfite;
But it's nae gowd that glitters
Wi' them thir days.

The lion here, wi' open paw,
May cleek in mony hunder,

Wha geck at Scotland, an' her law,
His wily talons under :

For, ken, though Jamie's laws are auld, (Thanks to the wise recorder!)

His Lion yet roars loud an' bauld,
To haud the whigs in order,

Sae prime this day.

To Town-guard drum o' clangour clear, Baith men an' steeds are raingit:

Some, liveries red or yellow wear,

An some are tartan spraingit.
An' now the red,-the blue e'en now,-
Bids fairest for the market;

But, ere the sport be done, I trow,
Their skins are gayly yarkit

An' peel'd thir days.

Siclike in Robinhood debates,

When twa chiels hae a pingle; E'en now some coulie gets his aits, An' dirt wi' words they mingle;

Till up loups he, wi' diction fu',

There's lang an' dreech contestin';
For now they're near the point in view-
Now, ten miles frae the question
In hand that night.

The races owre, they hail the dules
Wi' drink o' a' kin-kind:

Great feck gae hirplin hame like fools,
The cripple lead the blind.

May ne'er the canker o' the drink
Mak our bauld spirits thrawart,
'Case we get wherewitha' to wink
Wi' een as blue's a blawort,

Wi' straiks thir days!

(

THE FARMER'S INGLE.

Et multo imprimis hilarans convivia Baccho,
Ante focum, si frigus erit.

Virg. Buc.

WHEN gloamin' grey out-owre the welkin keeks; When Batie ca's his owsen to the byre;

When Thrasher John, sair dung, his barn-door steeks,

An' lusty lasses at the dightin tire:

What bangs fu' leal the e'enin's coming cauld,
An' gars snaw-tappit Winter freeze in vain ;
Gars dowie mortals look baith blithe an' bauld,
Nor fley'd wi' a' the poortith o' the plain;
Begin, my Muse! and chaunt in hamely strain.

Frae the big stack, weel winnow't on the hill,
Wi' divots theekit frae the weet an' drift;
Sods, peats, an' heathery truffs the chimley fill,
An' gar their thickening smeek salute the lift.
The gudeman, new come hame, is blithe to find,
When he out-owre the hallan flings his een,
That ilka turn is handled to his mind;

That a' his housie looks sae cosh an' clean;
For cleanly house lo'es he, though e'er sae mean.

Weel kens the gudewife, that the pleughs require
A heartsome meltith, an' refreshin' synd
O' nappy liquor, owre a bleezin' fire:

Sair wark an' poortith downa weel be join'd.
Wi' butter'd bannocks now the girdle reeks;
I' the far nook the bowie briskly reams;