Lapas attēli

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox,
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks;
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks !

E'en cowe the caddie;
An' send him to his dicing box

An' sportin lady.

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,
An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock’s 3

Nine times a-week,
If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks,

Wad kindly seek.

Could he some commutation broach,
I'll pledge my aith in guid bra Scotch,
He needna fear their foul reproach

Nor erudition,
Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch,

The Coalition.

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue;
She's just a devil wi' a rung;
An' if she promise auld or young

To tak their part,
Tho' by the neck she should be strung,

She'll no desert.

An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,
May still your Mither's heart support ye;
Then, though a Minister grow dorty,

An' kick your place,
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty,

Before his face.

God bless your Honors a' your days,
Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o'claise,
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes

That haunt St. Jamie's ! Your humble Poet sings an' prays

While Rab his name is.

Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies
See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise;
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,

But blythe and frisky, She eyes her free-born, martial boys,

Tak aff their Whisky. What though 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 thoughts 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,
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,
Say, such is royal George's will,

An' there's the foe,
He has nae thought but how to kill

Twa at a blow.

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;
Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him;
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him;

An' when he fa's,
His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him

In faint huzzas.

Sages their solemn een may steek,
An' raise a philosophic reek,
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!
Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather,
Till whare ye sit, on craps o’'heather,

Ye tine your dam;
(Freedom and Whisky gang thegither!)

Tak aff



I Sir Adam Furguson. E.
2 The present Duke of Montrose. E.

3 A worthy old Hostess of the Author's in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies Politics over a glass of gude auld Scotch Drink.


Holy Fair is a common phrase in the West of Scotland for a sacramental occasion.

A robe of seeming truth and trust,

Hid crafty Observation;
And secret hung, with poison'd crust,

The dirk of Defamation:
A mask that like the gorget show'd,

Dye-varying on the pigeon;
And for a mantle large and broad,
He wrapt him in Religion.

Hypocrisy a-la-mode.


UPON a simmer Sunday morn,

When Nature's face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,

An' snuff the caller air.
The rising sun owre Galston muirs,

Wi' glorious light was glintin;
The hares were hirplin down the furs,
The lav'rocks they were chantin

Fu' sweet that day.

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad,

To see a scene sae gay,
Three Hizzies, early at the road,

Cam skelpin up the way;
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,

But ane wi’ lyart lining;
The third, that gaed a-wee a-back,
Was in the fashion shining,

Fu' gay that day.


The twa appear'd like sisters twin,

In feature, form, an' claes ! Their visage wither'd, lang, an' thin,

An' sour as ony slaes:
The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp,

As light as ony lambie,
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,

I think ye seem to ken me;
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face,

But yet I canna name ye.'
Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak,

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 bae; An' this is Superstition here,

An' that's Hypocrisy. I'm gaun to

Holy Fair, To spend an hour in daffin: Gin ye'll go there, yon runkld pair, We will get famous laughin

At them this day.'


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