'The bridegroom gae me great commands

To bring ye down.'

Quo' Meg and Kate, We'll keep the town, 'We're laying up to buy a gown.'

'Howt fy! (quo' Jock, that blythsome lown) 'O binna thrawin,

'For Rob and I sall dossy down

"Your dinner-lawin.

'As bairns blyth wha get the play, 'I trow we'll hae a merry day,

'And I'm to be the Alikay

6 At Kirk-town ha';

'Mind, Sirs, put on your best array,

And let's be braw.

'O lasses! ye's get favours fair,

And sweethearts maybe ye'll get there; 'We'll hae a day o' dancing rare,

Just in a trice;

'But mind your soals ye manna spare,

'Nor yet be nice.

'Gin ye wad thole to hear a friend,
'Tak tent, and nae wi' strunts offend,

'I've seen queans dink, and neatly prin'd

'Frae tap to middle,

'Looking just like the far-aff end

'O' an auld fiddle.'

Wow but they a' tak wondrous tent,
Till Johnnie's budget is quite spent,
And syne baith ane and a' are bent,

To tell their minds;

Then comes the various comment,

Frae honest hinds.

Nature unhurt by thrawart man,
And nae margullied by chicane,
I trow fu' doughtily she can

Shaw reason's power :

Sure false philosophy began

In hapless hour.

The farmer now comes ben the house,
Whilk o' their gabbin makes a truce,
The lads and lasses a' grow douse,

And spare their din;

For true's the tale, Well kens the mouse

"When pussie's in!'

And syne he does his orders gie,

And says,

Ye'll busy need to be,

"The fallowing yon field, I see,

"Taks unco force:

And meat the horse,"

'But gae awa' e'en now (quo' he)

While I descrive this happy spot,
The supper mauna be forgot,

Now lasses round the ingle trot

To mak the brose,

And swankies they link aff the pot,

To hain their joes.

The dishes set on unspread table,
To answer nature's wants are able,
Round caps and plates, the cutties sable

Are flung ding dang:

Their wames to pang.

The lads and lasses to enable

They a' thrang round the lang board now, Whare there is meet for ilka mou';

Hire-men their hats and bonnets pu'

Upo' their face,

But gentle fouks think shame to bow,
Or say a grace.

O here are joys uninterrup',

Far hence is pleasure's gangrene cup;

Clear blooded health tends ilka sup

O' simple diet;

But flies awa' frae keeping't up,

And midnight riot

When supper's o'er and thanks are gien, Mirth dances round wi' canty mein,

In daffin, and in gabbin keen

An hour they pass;

And ilka lad, wi' pawky een,

Looks at his lass

But Morpheus begins to chap,
And bids them a' gae tak a nap;

And whan they've sleepit like a tap,

They rise to wark,

Like Phoebus out o' Thetis' lap,

As blyth's a lark,

THE

FARMER'S INGLE.

BY ROBERT FERGUSSON.

Et multo in primis hilarans convivia Baccho,
Aate focum, si firigus erit.

VIRG. BUC.

WHAN gloming grey out o'er the welkin keeks, Whan Batie ca's his owsen to the byre,

Whan Thrasher John, sair dung, his barn-door steeks,

And lusty lasses at the dighting tire;

What bangs fu' leal the e'enings coming cauld, And gars snaw-tapit winter freeze in vain, Gars dowie mortals look baith blythe and bauld, Nor fley'd w' a' the poortith o' the plain; Begin, my Muse, and chant in hamely strain.

Free the big stack, weel winnow't on the hill,
Wi' divets theekit frac the weet and drift,
Sods, peats, and heath'ry trufs the chimley fill,

And gar their thick'ning smeek salute the lift; The gudeman, new come hame, is blythe to find, Whan he out o'er the halland flings his e'en, That ilka turn is handled to his mind,

That a' his housie looks sae cosh and clean: For cleanly house loes he, tho' e'er sae mean.