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Old Loda', still rueing the arm of Fingal,
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall-
“This Whistle's your challenge, in Scotland get o’er,
And drink them to hell, Sir, or ne'er see me more !”

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,
What champions ventur'd, what champions fell ;
The son of great Loda was conqueror still,
And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill.

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war,
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea,
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he.

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain’d,
Which now in his house has for ages remain’d;
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,
The jovial contest again have renew’d.

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw;
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law;
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins ;
And gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines.

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,
Desiring, Glenriddel to yield up the spoil;
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan,
And once more, in claret, try which was the man.

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By the gods of the ancients !' Glenriddel replies, * Before I surrender so glorious a prize, I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More?, And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er.'

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, 911 But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foer or his friend, Said, toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field, T And knee-deep in claret, he'd die ere he'd yield.

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, trigo
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;
But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame,
Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dame,

A bard was selected to witness the fray, } IT: And tell future ages the feats of the day;

qafil, A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, ),reft And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. I

The dinner being over, the claret they ply,
And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy;
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set,
And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet.

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ;
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core,
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn,
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn.

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night,
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,
Turn’d o'er in one bumper a bottle of red,
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did.

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage,
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage;
A high-ruling Elder to wallow in wine!
He left the foul business to folks less divine.

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end ; ;) 1.
But who can with fate and quart bumpers contend?!
Though fate said a hero should perish in light;
So uprose bright Phæbus--and down fell the knight.

1 Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in drink; “ Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink! But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, Come one bottle more--and have at the sublime !

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“Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce,
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce:
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay;
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!""

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SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE,

A BROTHER POET.

Prefixed to the Poems of David Sillar, published at Kilmarnock, 1789.

AULD NEEBOR,
I'm three times, doubly, o'er your debtor,
For your auld-farrent, frien’ly letter;
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter,

Ye speak sae fair;
For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter

Some less maun sair.

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Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;
Lang may your elbuck jink an' diddle,
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle

O' war’ly cares, 'Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle

Your auld gray hairs.

But, Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit;
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit;
An' gif its sae, ye sud be licket

Until ye fyke;
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit,

Be hain't wha like.

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink,
Rivin the words to gar them clink;
Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink,

Wi' jads or masons ;
An' whyles, but aye owre late, I think

Braw sober lessons.

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man,
Commen’ me to the Bardie clan;
Except it be some idle plan

O'rhymin clink,
The devil-haet, that I sud ban!

They ever think.

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin,
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin:
But just the pouchie put the nieve in,

An' while ought's there,
Then biltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin,

An' fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it's aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure,
At hame, a-field, at wark, or leisure,

The Muse, poor hizzie !
Tho' rough an' raplock be her measure,

She's seldom lazy.

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie:
The warl' may play you monie a shavie;
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye,

Tho' e'er sae puir,
Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie

Frae door to door.

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