Now gae your wa's-Though ance as gude
As ever happit flesh an' blude,
Yet part we maun.-The case sae hard is
Amang the writers an' the bardies,
That lang they'll bruik the auld, I trow,
Or neebours cry,
"Weel bruik the new !"
Still makin' tight, wi' tither steek,
The tither hole, the tither eik,
To bang the bir o' winter's anger,
An' haud the hurdies out o' langer.
Siclike some weary wight will fill
His kyte wi' drogs frae doctor's bill,
Thinkin' to tack the tither year
To life, an' look baith hale an' fier,
Till, at the lang-run, death dirks in,
To birze his saul ayont his skin.
You needna wag your duds o' clouts,
Nor fa' into your dorty pouts,
To think that erst you've hain'd my tail
Frae wind an' weet, frae snaw an' hail,
An' for reward, when bald an' hummil,
Frae garret high to dree a tummil.
For you I car'd, as lang's ye dow'd
Be lin'd wi' siller or wi' gowd:
Now to befriend, it wad be folly,
Your raggit hide, an' pouches holey;
For wha but kens a poet's placks
Get mony weary flaws an' cracks,
An' canna thole to hae them tint,
As he sae seenil sees the mint?
That ithers fare as ill as thee;
For weel we lo'e the chield we think
Can get us tick, or gie us drink,
Till o' his purse we've seen the bottom,
Then we despise, an' hae forgot him.
Yet, gratefu' hearts, to mak amends,
Will aye be sorry for their friends,
An' I for thee;-as mony a time
Wi' you I've speel'd the braes o' rhyme,
Where, for the time, the muse ne'er cares
For siller, or sic guilefu' wares,
Wi' whilk we drumly grow, an' crabbit,
Dour, capernoited, thrawin-gabbit;
An' brither, sister, friend, an' fae,
Without remeid of kindred, slay.
You've seen me round the bickers reel
Wi' heart as hale as temper'd steel,
An' face sae open, free, an' blithe,
Nor thought that sorrow there could kyth;
But the niest moment this was lost,
Like gowan in December's frost.
Cou'd prick-the-louse but be sae handy As mak the breeks an' claes to stand aye, Through thick an' thin wi' you I'd dash on, Nor mind the folly o' the fashion:
But, hech! the times' vicissitudo
Gars ither breeks decay, as you do.
The macaronies, braw an' windy,
Maun fail-Sic transit gloria mundi!
Now, speed you to some madam's chaumer,
That but an' ben rings dule an' clamour;
Ask her, in kindness, if she seeks
In hidlin ways to wear the breeks.
Safe you may dwell, though mould an' motty, Beneath the veil o' under coatie:
For this, mair fau'ts nor yours can screen
Frae lover's quickest sense, his een.
Or if some bard, in lucky times,
Shou'd profit meikle by his rhymes,
An' pace awa, wi' smirky face,
In siller or in gowden lace,
Glowr in his face, like spectre gaunt,
Remind him o' his former want,
To cow his daffin' an' his pleasure,
An' gar him live within the measure.
So Philip, it is said, who wou'd ring
Owre Macedon a just and gude king,
Fearing that power might plume his feather,
An' bid him stretch beyont the tether,
Ilk morning to his lug wou'd ca'
A tiny servant o' his ha',
To tell him to improve his span,
For Philip was, like him, a man.
AULD REEKIE! wale o' ilka town
That Scotland kens beneath the moon;
Where coothy chields at e'enin' meet,
Their bizzin craigs an' mous to weet;
An' blithly gar auld care gae by
Wi' blinkin an' wi' bleerin eye.
Owre lang frae thee the Muse has been
Sae frisky on the Simmer's green,
When flowers an' gowans wont to glent
In bonny blinks upo' the bent;
But now the leaves o' yellow dye,
Peel'd frae the branches, quickly fly;
An' now frae nouther bush nor brier
The spreckled mavis greets your ear;
Nor bonny blackbird skims an' roves
To seek his love in yonder groves.
Then, Reekie, welcome! Thou canst charm,
Unfleggit by the year's alarm.
Not Boreas, that sae snelly blows,
Dare here pop in his angry nose;
Thanks to our dads, whase biggin stands
A shelter to surrounding lands!
Now Morn, wi' bonny purple smiles,
Kisses the air-cock o' Saunt Giles;
Rakin their een, the servant lasses
Early begin their lies an' clashes.
Ilk tells her friend o' saddest distress
That still she bruiks frae scoulin mistress;
An' wi' her joe, in turnpike stair,
She'd rather snuff the stinkin' air,
As be subjected to her tongue,
When justly censur'd i' the wrong.
On stair, wi' tub or pat in hand,
The barefoot housemaids lo'e to stand,
That antrin fouk may ken how snell
Auld Reekie will at mornin' smell:
Then, wi' an inundation big as
The burn that 'neath the Nor' Loch brig is,
They kindly shower Edina's roses,
To quicken an' regale our noses.
Now some for this, wi' satire's leesh,
Hae gi'en auld Edinbrough a creesh :
But without sourin nought is sweet;
The mornin' smells that hail our street
Prepare an' gently lead the way
To Simmer canty, braw, an' gay.
Edina's sons mair eithly share
Her spices an' her dainties rare,
Than he that's never yet been call'd
Aff frae his plaidie or his fauld.
Now stairhead critics, senseless fools!
Censure their aim, an' pride their rules,
In Luckenbooths, wi' glowrin eye,
Their neebour's sma'est fau'ts descry.
If ony loun shou'd dander there,
O' awkward gait, an' foreign air,
They trace his steps, till they can tell
His pedigree as weel's himsel.
When Phoebus blinks wi' warmer ray, An' schools at noon-day get the play, Then bus'ness, weighty bus'ness, comes; The trader glowrs-he doubts, he hums. The lawyers eke to Cross repair, Their wigs to shaw, an' toss an air; While busy agent closely plies, An' a' his kittle cases tries.
Now night, that's cunzied chief for fun, Is wi' her usual rites begun;
Through ilka gate the torches blaze,
An' globes send out their blinkin' rays.
The usefu' cadie plies in street,
To bide the profits o' his feet;
For, by thir lads Auld Reekie's fouk
Ken but a sample o' the stock
O' thieves, that nightly wad oppress,
An' mak baith goods an' gear the less.
Near him the lazy chairman stands,
An' wotsna how to turn his hands,
Till some daft birkie, rantin' fou,
Has matters somewhere else to do ;-
The chairman willing gies his light
To deeds o' darkness an' o' night.
It's never saxpence for a lift
That gars thir lads wi' founess rift;
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