THE KING'S BIRTH-DAY

IN EDINBURGH.

Oh! qualis hurly-burly fuit, si forte vidisses.

POLEMO-MIDDINIA.

I SING the day sae aften sung,
Wi' which our lugs hae yearly rung,
In whase loud praise the Muse has dung
A' kind o' print;

But wow! the limmer's fairly flung
There's naething int.

I'm fain to think the joy's the same
In London town as here at hame,
Whare fouk o' ilka age and name,

Baith blind and cripple

Forgather aft, O fy for shame!

To drink and tipple.

O Muse, be kind, and dinna fash us
To flee awa beyont Parnassus,

Nor seek for Helicon to wash us,

That heath'nish spring

Wi' Highland whisky scour our hawses,
And gar us sing,

Begin then, dame, ye've drunk your fill, You wadna hae the tither gill?

You'll trust me, mair would do you ill,
And ding you doitet:

Troth, 'twould be sair against my will
To hae the wyte o't.

Sing then, how, on the fourth o' June, Our bells screed aff a loyal tune,

Our ancient castle shoots at noon,

Wi' flag-staff buskit,

Frae which the soger blades come down,

To cock their musket,

Oh willawins! Mons Meg, for you,
'Twas firing crack'd thy muckle mou;
What black mishanter gart ye spew

Baith gut and ga'?

I fear they bang'd thy belly fu'

Against the law,

Right seenil am I gi'en to bannin',
But, by my saul, ye was a cannon
Could hit a man had he been stannin'

In shire o' Fife,

Sax lang Scots miles ayont Clackmannan,

And tak his life.

The hills in terror would cry out,

And echo to thy dinsome rout;

The herds would gather in their nowt,

That glowr'd wi' wonder,

Haflins afley'd to bide thereout

To hear thy thunder.

Sing likewise, Muse, how Blue-gown bodies, Like scar-craws new ta'en down frae woodies, Come here to cast their clouted duddies,

And get their pay:

Than them what magistrate mair proud is
On king's birth-day?

On this great day the city-guard,

In military art weel lear'd,

Wi' powder'd pow and shaven beard,

Gang thro' their functions,

By hostile rabble seldom spar'd

O' clatty unctions.

O soldiers! for your ain dear sakes,
For Scotland's, alias Land o' Cakes,
Gie not her bairns sic deadly pakes,
Nor be sae rude,

Wi' firelock or Lochaber axe,

As spill their blude.

Now round and round the serpents whiz
Wi' hissing wrath and angry phiz:
Sometimes they catch a gentle gizz,
Alack-a-day!

And singe, with hair-devouring bızz,
Its curls away.

Should th' owner patiently keek round
To view the nature o' his wound,
Dead pussie, draggl'd through the pond,
Taks him a lounder,

Whilk lays his honour on the ground

As flat's a flounder.

The Muse maun also now implore
Auld wives to steek ilk hole and bore;

If badrins slip but to the door,

I fear, I fear,

She'll nae lang shank upon a' four
This time o' year.

Neist day each hero tells his news,
O' crackit crowns and broken brows,
And deeds that here forbid the Muse

Her theme to swell,

Or time mair precious to abuse

Their crimes to tell.

She'll rather to the fields resort,

Whare music gars the day seem short, Whare doggies play, and lambies sport On gowany braes,

Whare peerless Fancy hauds her court, And tunes her lays,

BRAID CLAITH.

YE wha are fain to hae your name,
Wrote i' the bonny book o' Fame,
Let merit nae pretension claim

To laurel'd wreath,

But hap ye weel, baith back and wame,

In gude Braid Claith.

He that some ells o' this may fa',

An' slae black hat on pow like snaw,

Bids bauld to bear the gree awa'

Wi' a' this graith,

Whan beinly clad wi' shell fu' braw

O' gude Braid Claith.

Waesuck for him wha has nao feck o't
For he's a gowk they're sure to geck at,
A chiel that ne'er will be respekit,

While he draws breath,

Till his four quarters are bedeckit

Wi' gude Braid Claith.