When heavy-dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin; But, oil'd by thee, The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin, Wi' rattlin glee. Thou clears the head o' doited Lear; At's weary toil; Thou even brightens dark Despair Wi' gloomy smile. Aft, clad in massy siller weed, The poor man's wine; His wee drap parritch, or his bread, Thou kitchens fine. Thou art the life o' public haunts; By thee inspired, When gaping they besiege the tents, Are doubly fir'd. That merry night we get the corn in, In cog or bicker, An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, An' gusty sucker! When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, I' th' luggit caup! Then Burnewin comes on like death At every chap. Nae mercy then, for airn or steel; The strong forehammer, Till block an' studdie ring an reel, Wi' dinsome clamour. When skirling weanies see the light, Wae worth the name! Nae howdie gets a social night, Or plack frae them. When neibors anger at a plea, Cement the quarrel! It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, To taste the barrel. Alake! that e'er my muse has reason, Wi' liquors nice, An' hardly, in a winter season, E'er spier her price. Wae worth that brandy, burnin trash! O' half his days; An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash. To her warst faes. Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well! Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, Poor, plackless devils like mysel❜! It sets you ill, Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, Or foreign gill. May gravels round his blather wrench, O' sour disdain, Out owre a glass o' whisky-punch Wi' honest men! O Whisky! soul o' plays and pranks! When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks Thou comes-they rattle in their ranks, Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost! May kill us a'; For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast Is ta'en awa? Thae curst horse-leeches o' the' Excise, Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice! There, seize the blinkers! An' bake them up in brunstane pies For poor damn'd drinkers. Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still An' deal't about as thy blind skill Directs thee best. THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR-MORNING Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie: Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie, Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, It's now some nine-an'-twenty year, An' fifty mark; Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, An' thou was stark. When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, Ye ne'er was donsie; But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble, That day, ye was a jinker noble, For heels an' win'! An' ran them till they a' did wauble, Far, far, behin'! When thou an' I were young an' skeigh, How thou wad prance, and snore, an' skreigh An' tak the road! Town's-bodies ran, an' stood abeigh, An' ca't thee mad. When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, For pith an' speed; But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, Whare'er thou gaed. The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle An' gar't them whaizle: Thou was a noble fittie-lan', In guid March-weather, Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', For days thegither. Thou never braing't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit; When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, |