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⚫ without.

sugar. 'blacksmith.

m ninnies.


Thou art the life o' public haunts;


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

By thee inspired,

When gaping they besiege the tents,

Are doubly fir'd.

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


In cog or bicker,
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn d ́in,
An' gusty sucker!

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

I' th' luggit caup

Then Burnewin' comes on like death
At every chap.1

Nae mercy then, for airn or steel;
The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel,
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel,
The strong forehammer,

Till block an' studdie ring an reel,

Wi' dinsome clamour.

When skirling weanies' see the light,
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright,
How fumblin cuifsm their dearies slight;
Wae worth the name!

Nae howdie" gets a social night,

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1 In the first edition :

Wae worth them for't!

Or plack frae them.1

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When neibors anger at a plea,
An' just as wuda as wud can be,
How easy can the barley brieb

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 mony daily weet their weason

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 !d
Twins mony a poor, doylt,' drucken hash,
Ó' 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,h

Or foreign gill.

May gravels round his blather wrench,
An' gouts torment him, inch by inch,
Wha twists his gruntle1 wi' a glunch
O' sour disdain,

Out owre a glass o' whisky-punch

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Wi' honest men!

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O whisky! soul o' plays and pranks!
Accept a bardie's gratefu' thanks!
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
Are my poor verses!

Thou comes-they rattle in their ranks,
At ither's a-s!

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Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise,
Wha mak the whisky stells their prize!
Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice!
There, seize the blinkers! b

An' bake them up in brunstane pies

For poor d-n'd drinkers.

Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still
Hale breeks, a scone,d an' whisky gill,
An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will,

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1 Forbes of Culloden had a concession for distilling whiskey. This was with. drawn in 1785.

The Auld Farmer's New-Year- Morning
Salutation to his Auld Mare, Maggie,1

On giving her the accustomed ripp of corn to hansel in the New-Year.
A GUID New-year I wish thee, Maggie!
Hae, there's a rippb to thy auld baggie:
Tho' thou's howe-backitd now, an' knaggie,
I've seen the day

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Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie,
Out-owre the lay."



Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff an' crazy,
An' thy auld hide as white's a daisie,
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek an' glaizie,
A bonie gray:

He should been tight that daur't to raize1 thee,
Ance in a day.

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank,
A filly buirdly, steeve an' swank1;
An' set weel down a shapely shank,
As e'er tread yird
An' could hae flown out-owre a stank,'
Like ony bird.

It's now some nine-an'-twenty year,

Sin' thou was my guid-father's mear";

He gied me thee,

Tho' it was sma',

young deer.

o' tocher" clear,
An' fifty mark;
'twas weel-won gear,
An' thou was stark."

• belly. s lea

J stalwart, firm and supple.

m mare.

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1 Written early in 1786 "in the New Year."


When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,
Ye then was trotting wi' your minnie*:
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie,
Ye ne'er was donsieb;

But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie,
An' unco sonsie.d

That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride,
When ye bure hame my bonie bride :
An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride,
Wi' maiden air!

Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide
For sic a pair.


Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble,
An' wintle like a saumont coble, g

That day, ye was a jinker1 noble,

For heels an' win'!

An' ran them till they a' did wauble,1
Far, far, behin'!

When thou an' I were young an' skeigh,
An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,
How thou wad prance, and snore, an' skreigh1

• mother.

An' tak the road!

Town's-bodies ran, an' stood abeigh,m

An' ca't thee mad.

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow,
We took the road aye like a swallow:
At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow,
For pith an' speed;

But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow,

• can but amble.

stumble. m aloof.

Whare'er thou gaed.

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