It never fails, on drinkin' deep,

To kittle up our notion

By night or day.

The lads an' lasses, blythely bent
To mind baith saul an' body,
Sit round the table, weel content,
An' steer about the toddy.

On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leul
They're makin' observations;
While some are cozie i' the neuk,

An' formin assignations

To meet some day.

But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts,

Till a' the hills are rairan,

An' echoes back return the shouts ;
Black ✶✶✶ is na spairan :

His piercing words, like Highlan swords,
Divide the joints an' marrow;

His talk of Hell, whare devils dwell,

Our vera

66 Sauls does harrow"

Wi' fright that day!

A vast, unbottom❜d boundless Pit,
Fill'd fou of lowan brunstane,
Whase ragin flame, an' scorchin heat,
Wad melt the hardest whun-stane,

The half-asleep start up wi' fear,
An' think they hear it roaran,
When presently it does appear,
'Twas but some neebor snoran

Asleep that day.

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell
How monie stories past,

An' how they crowded to the yill,
When they were a' dismist :
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups,
Amang the furms and benches;

An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps,

Was dealt about in lunches,

An' dawds that day.

In comes a gaucie, gash Guidwife,

An' sits down by the fire,

Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife;
The lasses they are shyer.

The auld Guidmen, about the grace,

Frae side to side they bother,

Till some ane by his bonnet lays,

An' gies them't like a tether,

Fu' lang that day.

Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,
Or lasses that hae naething!

LIBRARY

OF THE

UNIVERSITY

CRI

Sma' need has he to say a grace,
Or melvie his braw claithing!
O Wives, be mindfu', ance yoursel
How bonie lads ye wanted,

An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel,

Let lasses be affronted

On sic a day!

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlan tow,

Begins to jow an' croon ;

Some swagger hame, the best they dow,

Some wait the afternoon.

At slaps the billies halt a blink,

Till lasses strip their shoon:

Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink,

They're a' in famous tune

For crack that day.

How monie hearts this day converts

O' sinners and o' Lasses!

Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane

As saft as ony flesh is.

There's some are fou o' love divine,

There's some are fou o' brandy;

An' monie jobs that day begin,

May end in Houghmagandie

Some ither day.

T

THE BRIGS OF AYR.

A POEM.

INSCRIBED TO JOHN BALLANTINE, ESQ., AYR.

HE simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough,

Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough; The chanting linnet or the mellow thrush,

Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush,
The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill,

Or deep-ton'd plovers, grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill;
Shall he, nurst in the Peasant's lowly shed,
To hardy Independence bravely bred,

By early Poverty to hardship steel'd,

And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field,
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes?
Or labour hard the panegyric close,

With all the venal scul of dedicating Prose?
No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings,
He glows with all the spirit of the Bard,
Fame, honest Fame, his great, his dear reward.
Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care he trace,
Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace;

When B✶✶ ✶ befriends his humble name
And hands the rustic Stranger up to fame,
With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells,
The god-like bliss, to give, alone excels.

'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap, And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap; Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath; The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer-toils, Unnumber'd buds and flow'rs delicious spoils, 'Seal'd up with frugal care in massive, waxen piles, Are doom'd by Man, that tyrant o'er the weak, The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek: The thund'ring guns are heard on ev'ry side, The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide; The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie, Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie: (What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds!) Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs; Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, Except perhaps the Robin's whistling glee, Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree : The hoary morn precede the sunny days,

Mild, calm, serene, wide-spreads the noontide blaze, While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays.