THE DAFT DAYS. Now mirk December's dowie face Glowrs owre the rigs wi' sour grimace, While, through his minimum o' space, The bleer-ee'd sun, Wi' blinkin' light, and stealing pace, His race doth run. Frae naked groves nae birdie sings, To shepherd's pipe nae hillock rings, The breeze nae od'rous flavour brings Frae Borean cave, And dwynin' nature droops her wings, Wi' visage grave. Mankind but scanty pleasure glean Frae snawy hill or barren plain, Whan Winter, 'midst his nipping train, Wi' frozen spear, Sends drift owre a' his bleak domain, And guides the weir. Auld Reikie! thou'rt the canty hole, Baith warm and couth; While round they gar the bicker roll, To weet their mouto. Whan merry Yule-day comes, I trow And kickshaws, strangers to our view Ye browster wives, now busk ye braw, Then come and gie's the tither blaw Mare precious than the well o' Spa, Our hearts to heal Then, though at odds wi' a' the warl', As lang's there's pith into the barrel, Fidlers, your pins in temper fix, But banish vile Italian tricks Frae out your quorum, Nor fortes wi' pianos mix, Gie's Tullochgorum. For nought can cheer the heart sae weel As can a canty Highland reel; It even vivifies the heel To skip and dance: Lifeless is he wha canna feel Its influence. Let mirth abound, let social cheer To crown our joy, Nor envy, wi' sarcastic sneer, Our bliss destroy. And thou, great god of Aqua vitæ ! To hedge us frae that black banditti, 3 |