A GRACE BEFORE DINNER, EXTEMPORE O THOU who kindly dost provide For every creature's want! We bless Thee, God of Nature wide, And if it please Thee, heavenly Guide, But, whether granted or denied, Lord, bless us with content. Amen! A GRACE AFTER DINNER, EXTEMPORE O THOU, in whom we live and move- Thy goodness constantly we prove, And, if it please Thee, Power above! The friend we trust, the fair we love- O MAY, THY MORN O MAY, thy morn was ne'er so sweet But I will aye remember: And here's to them that, like oursel, And here's to them that wish us weel, The dearest o' the quorum! AE FOND KISS, AND THEN WE SEVER AE fond kiss, and then we sever; Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, We had ne'er been broken-hearted. Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, BEHOLD THE HOUR, THE BOAT, ARRIVE BEHOLD the hour, the boat, arrive! Frae thee whom I hae lov'd sae weel? Endless and deep shall be my grief; Alang the solitary shore. Where flitting sea-fowl round me cry, Across the rolling, dashing roar, I'll westward turn my wishful eye. "Happy thou Indian grove," I'll say, 66 Where now my Nancy's path shall be! While thro' your sweets she holds her way, THOU GLOOMY DECEMBER ANCE mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December! Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care; Sad was the parting thou makes me rememberParting wi' Nancy, oh, ne'er to meet mair! Fond lovers' parting is sweet, painful pleasure, Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour; But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever! Anguish unmingled, and agony pure! Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, MY NATIVE LAND SAE FAR AWA O SAD and heavy, should I part, Thou that of a' things Maker art, How true is love to pure desert! Nane other love, nane other dart, I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR I DO confess thou art sae fair, I wad been o'er the lugs in luve, Had I na found the slightest prayer That lips could speak thy heart could muve. I do confess thee sweet, but find That kisses ilka thing it meets. See yonder rosebud, rich in dew, Amang its native briers sae coy; Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide, LINES ON FERGUSSON, THE POET ILL-FATED genius! Heaven-taught Fergusson! What heart that feels and will not yield a tear, To think Life's sun did set e'er well begun To shed its influence on thy bright career. O why should truest Worth and Genius pine Beneath the iron grasp of Want and Woe, While titled knaves and idiot-Greatness shine In all the splendour Fortune can bestow? THE WEARY PUND O' TOW Chorus. The weary pund, the weary pund, I think my wife will end her life, I BOUGHT my wife a stane o' lint, |