Till curst wi' age, obscure an' starvin,
They aften groan.

Alas! what bitter toil an' straining-
But truce wi' peevish, poor complaining!
Is fortune's fickle Luna waning?

E'en let her gang!

Beneath what light she has remaining,

Let's sing our sang.

My pen I here fling to the door,

And kneel," Ye Powers!" and warm implore, "Tho' I should wander terra o'er,

In all her climes,

Grant me but this, I ask no more,

Aye rowth o' rhymes.

"Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds,
Till icicles hing frae their beards;
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards,

And maids o' honour;

And yill an' whisky gie to cairds,

Until they sconner.

"A title, Dempster merits it;

A garter gie to Willie Pitt;

Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit,

In cent. per cent.,

But give me real, sterling wit,

And I'm content.

"While ye are pleased to keep me hale, I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal,

Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail,

Wi' cheerfu' face,

As lang's the muses dinna fail

To say
the

grace."

An anxious ee I never throws

Behint my lug, or by my nose;
I jouk beneath misfortune's blows
As weel's I may;

Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose,
I rhyme away.

O ye douce folk, that live by rule,
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm, and cool,
Compared wi' you-O fool! fool! fool!
How much unlike!

Your hearts are just a standing pool,
Your lives, a dyke!

Nae hair-brain'd sentimental traces
In your unletter'd, nameless faces!
In arioso trills and graces

Ye never stray,

But, gravissimo, solemn basses

Ye hum away.

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise;

Nae ferly tho' ye do despise

The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys,

The rattlin squad:

I see you upward cast your eyes

-Ye ken the road.

Whilst I but I shall haud me there
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where—
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair,

But quat my sang,

Content wi' you to mak a pair,

Whare'er I gang.

SCOTCH DRINK.

Let other poets raise a fracas

'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus, An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us,

An' grate our lug,

I sing the juice Scots bear can mak us,
In glass or jug.

O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drink,
Whether through wimpling worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink,

In glorious faem,

Inspire me, till I lisp and wink,

To sing thy name!

Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn,
An' Aits set up their awnie horn,
An' Pease and Beans at e'en or morn

Perfume the plain,

Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,

Thou king o' grain!

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,
In souple scones, the wale o' food!
Or tumblin in the boiling flood

Wi' kail an' beef;

But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,

There thou shines chief.

Food fills the wame, and keeps us livin;
Though life's a gift no worth receivin,
When heavy dragged wi' pine an' grievin;

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear;
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair,

At's weary toil :

Thou even brightens dark Despair

Wi' gloomy smile.

Aft, clad in massy silver weed,
Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head;
Yet humbly kind in time o' need,

The poor man's wine,

His wee drap parritch, or his bread,

Thou kitchens fine.

Thou art the life o' public haunts;

But thee, what were our fairs and rants?
Even godly meetings o' the saunts,

By thee inspired,

When gaping they besiege the tents,

Are doubly fired.

That merry night we get the corn in,
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in!
Or reekin on a New-year morning

In cog or bicker,

An' just a wee drap spiritual burn in,

An' gusty sucker!

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

I' th' lugget caup!

Then Burnewin comes on like death

At every chaup.

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel;

The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel,

1

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 cuifs their dearies slight;

Wae worth the name!

Nae howdie gets a social night,

Or plack frae them.

When neebors anger at a plea,
An' just as wud as wud can be,
How easy can the barley-bree

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, burning trash!
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash!
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hash,

O' half his days;

An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash

To her warst faes.

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland weel!
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
Poor plackless devils like mysel!

It sets you ill,