What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, While fragrance blooms and beauty charms! When wretches range, in famish'd swarms, The scented groves, Or hounded forth, dishonour arms In hungry droves. Their gun's a burden on their shouther; They downa bide the stink o' powther; Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither To stan' or rin, Till skelp-a shot-they're aff, a' throwther, To save their skin. But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, An' there's the foe, He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow. Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him; An' when he fa's, His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him In faint huzzas. Sages their solemn een may steek, An' physically causes seek, In clime and season; But tell me whisky's name in Greek, I'll tell the reason. Scotland, my auld, respected mither! Ye tine your dam; Freedom and whisky gang thegither! Tak aff your dram! THE HOLY FAIR'. A robe of seeming truth and trust And secret hung, with poison'd crust, A mask, that like the gorget show'd, Hypocrisy a-la mode. UPON a simmer Sunday morn, The rising sun owre Galston muirs, Fu' sweet that day. As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, But ane wi' lyard lining; The third, that gaed a-wee a-back, Was in the fashion shining, Fu' gay that day. Holy fair is a common phrase in the West of Scotland for a sacramental occasion, The twa appear'd like sisters twin, Their visage, wither'd, lang an' thin, The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, As soon as e'er she saw me, Fu' kind that day. Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, 'Sweet lass, An' taks me by the hands, 'Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck Of a' the ten commands A screed some day. 'My name is Fun-your cronie dear, The nearest friend ye hae; An' this is Superstition here, An' that's Hypocrisy, I'm gaun to * To spend an hour in daffin: Holy Fair, Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair, We will get famous laughin At them this day.' Quoth I, 'With a' my heart, I'll do't; I'll get my Sunday's sark on, An' meet you on the holy spot; Faith we'se bae fine remarkin! Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, For roads were clad, frae side to side, In droves that day. Here farmers gash, in ridin graith Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, An' farls bak'd wi' butter Fu' crump that day. When by the plate we set our nose, Some carrying dales, some chairs an' stools, An' some are busy blethrin Right loud that day. Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, Here sits a raw of tittlin jades, Wi' heaving breast and bare neck, An' there a batch o' wabster lads, Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock For fun this day. |