Thou art the life o' public haunts; But thee, what were our fairs and rants? By thee inspired, When gaping they besiege the tents, 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! 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, 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! Fell source o' mony a pain an' brash! Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash, O' half his days; An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash To her warst faes. Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well! 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 Are my poor verses! Thou comes-they rattle in their ranks, At ither's a-s! Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost! Now colic grips, an' barkin hoast May kill us a'; For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast Is ta'en awa? Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, An' bake them up in brunstane pies For poor d-n'd drinkers. Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still An' deal't about as thý blind skill Directs thee best. THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR-MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE, MAGGIE On giving her the accustomed ripp of corn to hansel in the New Year. A GUID New-year I wish thee, Maggie! Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie, Out-owre the lay. Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff an' crazy, A bonie gray: He should been tight that daur't to raize thee,. Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, As e'er tread yird; 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, When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide 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, Town's-bodies ran, an' stood abeigh, An' ca't thee mad. When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, For pith an' speed; But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, Whare'er thou gaed. The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle O' saugh or hazel. Thou was a noble fittie-lan', As e'er in tug or tow was drawn! In guid March-weather, Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', Thou never braing't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit; Till sprittie knowes wad rair't an' riskit When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, I gied thy cog a wee bit heap Aboon the timmer: I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep, For that, or simmer. In cart or car thou never reestit; The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it; But just thy step a wee thing hastit, My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a', That thou hast nurst: They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, The vera warst. |