When Vulcan gies his bellys breath,
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith,
O rare to see thee fizz an' freath

Then Burnewin comes on like Death
At ev'ry chap.

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel;
The brawnie, banie, ploughman-chiel,
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel,

The strong forehammer,

Till block an' studdie ring an' reel

Wi' dinsome clamour.

When skirlin weanies see the light,
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright,
How fumblin' coofs their dearies slight,

Wae worth them for't!

While healths gae round to him wha, tight,
Gies famous sport.

When neebors anger at a plea,
An' just as wud as wud can be,

How easy can the barley-brie

Cement the quarrel!

It's aye the cheapest Lawyer's fee,

To taste the barrel.

Alake! that e'er my Muse has reason
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason!
But monie daily weet their weason

Wi' liquors nice,

An' hardly, in a winter's season,

E'er spier her price.

Wae worth that Brandy, burnan trash! Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash! Twins monie a poor, doylt, druken hash, O' half his days;

An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash

To her warst faes.

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well, Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,

Poor plackless devils like mysel

It sets you ill,

Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell,

Or foreign gill.

May Gravels round his blather wrench, An' Gouts torment him, inch by inch, Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch

O' sour disdain,

Out owre a glass o' Whisky-punch

Wi' honest men !

O Whisky! soul o' plays an' pranks !
Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks!

When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks

Are my poor Verses!

Thou comes

-they rattle i' their ranks

At ither's arses !

Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!
Scotland lament frae coast to coast!

Now collic-grips, an barkin hoast,

May kill us a';

For loyal Forbes' Charter'd boast

Is ta'en awa!

Thac curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise,
Wha mak the Whisky stells their prize!

Haud up thy han' Deil! ance, twice, thrice!

There, seize the blinkers!

An' bake them up in brunstane pies

For poor damn'd drinkers.

Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still
Hale breeks, a scone, an' whisky gill,
An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will,

Tak' a' the rest,

An' deal't about as thy blind skill

Directs thee best.

THE HOLY FAIR.

PON a simmer Sunday morn,

UF

When Nature's face is fair,

I walked forth to view the corn,

An' snuff the callor air.

The risin' sun, owre GALSTON Muirs,
Wi' glorious light was glintan;
The hares were hirplan down the furrs,

The lav'rocks they were chantan

Fu' sweet that day.

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad,
To see a scene sae gay,
Three hizzies, early at the road,

Cam skelpan 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;

C

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 bonie face,
But yet I canna name ye."

Quo' she, an' laughan as she spak,
An' taks me by the han's,

"Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck

Of a' the ten comman's

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 *** holy fair,

To spend an hour in daffin:

Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair,

We will get famous laughin

At them this day."