She ne'er gae in a lawin fause,*
Nor stoups a' froth aboon the hause,
Nor kept dow'd tip within her wa's,
But reaming swats;

She never ran sour jute, because
It gies the batts.

She had the gate sae weel to please,
Wi' gratis beef, dry fish, or cheese,
Which kept our purses aye at ease,
And health in tift,

And lent her fresh nine-gallon trees,
A hearty lift.

She gae us aft hale legs o' lamb,
And did nae hain her mutton ham;
Then aye at Yule, whene'er we cam,
A braw goose pye;
And was nae that guid belly baum?
Nane daur deny.

The writer lads fu' weel may mind her,
Furthy was she, her luck design'd her
Their common mither, sure nane kinder
Ever brak bread;

She has nae left her maik behind her;
But now she's dead.

To the sma' hours we aft sat still,

Nick'd round our toasts and sneeshin'-mill;
Guid cakes we wanted ne'er at will,

The best o' bread,

Which aften cost us mony a gill

To Aikenhead. †

Could our saut tears like Clyde down rin,

And had we cheeks like Corra's lin,

That a' the warld might hear the din

Rair frae ilk head;

She was the wale o' a' her kin

But now she's dead.

*All this verse is a fine picture of an honest ale-seller-a rarity.

The Nether-bow porter, to whom Lucky's customers were often obliged, for opening the port to them, when they staid out till the small hours after midnight.

Oh Lucky Wood! it's hard to bear
The loss; but, oh! we maun forbear;
Yet sall thy memory be dear

While blooms a tree;

And after ages' bairns will speer

'Bout thee and me.

EPITAPH.

Beneath this sod

Lies Lucky Wood,
Wham a' men might put faith in ;
Wha was nae sweer,

While she winn'd here,

To cram our wames for naething.

THE LIFE AND ACTS OF, OR AN ELEGY
ON, PATIE BIRNIE.*

The famous fiddler o' Kinghorn;
Wha gart the lieges gawff and girn aye,
Aft till the clock proclaim'd the morn;
Tho' baith his weeds and mirth were pirny, t
He roos'd these things were langest worn;
The brown ale barrel was his kirn aye,
And faithfully he toomed his horn.
And then besides his valiant acts,

At bridals he wan mony placks.

HAB. SIMPSON.

In sonnet slee, the man I sing,
His rare ingine in rhyme shall ring,

* [There is a head of Patie Birnie in Caulfield's "Portraits, Memoirs, &c., of Remarkable Persons from the Revolution in 1688 to the end of the Reign of George II." He is represented as a smirking rogue, with a large Rabelais-looking forehead, a curling beard, a cloak, and his fiddle in his hand. How the portrait was obtained, we are not informed.]

† When a piece of stuff is wrought unequally, part coarse and part fine, of yarn of different colours, we call it pirny, from the pirn, or little hollow reed, which holds the yarn in the shuttle.

Wha slade the stick out ower the string,
Wi' sic an art:

Wha sang sae sweetly to the spring,
And rais'd the heart.

Kinghorn may rue the ruefu' day
That lighted Patie to his clay,
Wha gart the hearty billies stay,
And spend their cash,

To see his snout, to hear him play,
And gab sae gash.

When strangers landed,* wow sae thrang,
Puffing and peghing, he wad gang,
And crave their pardon that sae lang
He'd been a-coming;

Syne his bread-winner out he'd bang,
And fa' to bumming.

Your honour's father, † dead and gane,
For him he first wad mak his mane,
But soon his face wad mak ye fain,+
When he did sough,

O wiltu, wiltu do't again? §

And grain'd and leugh.

This sang he made frae his ain head, ||
And eke The auld man's mare she's dead,
Tho' peats and turfs and a's to lead:
O fy upon her!

A bonny auld thing this indeed,

An't like your honour.

* It was his custom to watch when strangers went into a public-house, and attend them, pretending they had sent for him, and that he could not get away sooner from other company.

It was his first compliment to one (though he had perhaps never seen him nor any of his predecessors), that well he knew his honour's father, and been merry with him, and an excellent good fellow he was.

Showing a very particular comicalness in his looks and ges tures, laughing and groaning at the same time. He plays, sings, and breaks in with some queer tale twice or thrice ere he gets through the tune-his beard is no small addition to the diversion. § The name of a tune he played upon all occasions. || He boasted of being poet as well as musician.

How first he practis'd ye shall hear:
The harn-pan o' an umquhile mare,
He strung, and strak sounds saft and clear,
Out o' the pow,

Which fir'd his saul, and gart his ear
Wi' gladness glow.

Sae some auld-gabbet poets tell,
Jove's nimble son and lackey snell
Made the first fiddle o' a shell,*
On which Apollo,

Wi' meikle pleasure, play'd himsell
Baith jig and solo.

Oh Johnny Stocks, what's come o' thee?+
I'm sure thou'lt break thy heart and dee:
Thy Birnie gane, thou❜lt never be

Nor blythe, nor able

To shake thy short houghs merrily
Upon a table.

How pleasant was't to see thee diddle,
And dance so finely to his fiddle,

Wi' nose foregainst thy partner's middle,
And briskly brag,

Wi' cutty steps to ding their striddle,
And gar them fag.

Pate was a carle o' canny sense,
And wanted ne'er a right bein spence,‡
And laid up dollars in defence

'Gainst eild and gout,

Weel judging gear in future tense
Could stand for wit.

Yet prudent fouk may tak the pet:
Ance thrawart porter wadna let

*Tuque testudo, resonare septem

Callida nervis.-HORACE.

A man of low stature, but very broad; a loving friend of his, who used to dance to his music.

Good store of provisions, the spence being a little apartment for meal, flesh, &c.

Him in while latter meat was het;*
He gaw'd fu' sair,

Flang in his fiddle owre the yett,
Whilk ne'er did mair.

But profit may arise frae loss,
Sae Pate got comfort by his cross;
Soon as he wan within the close,
He dously drew in

Mair gear frae ilka gentle goss

Than bought a new ane.

When lying bed-fast, sick and sair,
To parish priest he promised fair
He ne'er wad drink fou ony mair;
But hale and tight,

He proved the auld man to a hair,
Strute ilka night.

The haly dad, wi' care essays
To wile him frae his wanton ways,
And tell'd him o' his promise twice;
Pate answer'd clever:
Wha tents what people raving says,
Whan in a fever?

At Bothwell Brig he gaed to fight; †
But being wise as he was wight,
He thought it shaw'd a saul but slight
Daftly to stand,

And let gunpowder wrang his sight,
Or fiddle hand.

Right pawkily he left the plain,

Nor ower his shouther look'd again,

*This happened in the Duke of Rothes's time. His Grace was giving an entertainment, and Patrick being denied entry by the servants, he, either from a cunning view of the lucky consequence, or in a passion, did what is described.

↑ Bothwell Brig, upon Clyde, where the famous battle was fought, in 1670, for the determination of some kittle points; but I dare not assert that it was religion carried my hero to the field.