AIR. TUNE" Clout the Cauldron." My bonnie lass, I work in brass, A tinkler is my station; I've travell'd round all Christian ground I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd I've ta'en the gold, &c. Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, And tak a share wi' those that bear And by that stoup, my faith and houp, If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, And by that stoup, &c. RECITATIVO. The Caird prevail'd-th' unblushing fair In his embraces sunk, Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, And partly she was drunk. Sir Violino, with an air That show'd a man o' spunk, But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft He was a care-defying blade His heart she ever miss'd it. His sang that night. THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR SALUTATION. 53 THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE, MAGGIE, ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble, For heels an' win'! When thou an' I were young and skeigh, An' stable-meals at fairs were driegh, How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skriegh An' tak the road! Town's-bodies ran, and stood abeigh, An' ca't thee mad. When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle; But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, An' gart them whaizle: Thou was a noble fittie-lan', Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit, But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd briskit, Wi' pith an' pow'r, Till spritty knowes wad rair't and riskit, An' slypet owre. When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labour back to keep, Aboon the timmer; I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep In cart or car thou never reestit; But just thy step a wee thing hastit, My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a': That thou hast nurst: They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, The vera warst. Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, Yet here to crazy age we're brought, And think na, my auld, trusty servan', A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane We've worn to crazy years thegither; Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785. WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, I'm truly sorry man's dominion Which makes thee startle, I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, And never miss't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, An' weary winter comin fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! |