That e'er ye brak Diana's pales,
Or rattled dice wi' Charlie,
By night or day.

Yet aft a ragged cowte 's been known
To mak a noble aiver;
So, ye may doucely fill a throne,
For a' their clish-ma-claver :
There, him at Agincourt wha shone,
Few better were or braver ;
And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,
He was an unco shaver,
For monie a day.

As

For you, Right Reverend Osnaburg,
Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,
Although a ribbon at your lug
Wad been a dress completer:
ye disown yon paughty dog
That bears the keys of Peter,
Then, swith! and get a wife to hug,
Or, trouth! ye'll stain the mitre
Some luckless day.

Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn,
Ye've lately come athwart her,
A glorious galley, stem and stern,
Weel rigged for Venus' barter;
But first hang out, that she'll discern,
Your hymeneal charter,

Then heave aboard your grapple-airn,
And, large upon her quarter,
Come full that day.

Ye, lastly, bonny blossoms a',
Ye royal lassies dainty,

Heaven mak ye guid as weel as braw,
And gie you lads a-plenty.

But sneer na British boys awa',

For kings are unco scant aye; And German gentles are but sma', They 're better just than want aye On ony day.

God bless you a'! consider now,
Ye're unco muckle dautet;
But ere the course o' life be through,
It may be bitter sautet:
And I hae seen their coggie fou,
That yet hae tarrow't at it;
But or the day was done, I trow,
The laggen they hae clautet
Fu' clean that day.

THE HOLY FAIR.

"A robe of seeming truth and trust
Hid crafty observation;

And secret hung, with poisoned crust,
The dirk of Defamation:

A mask that like the gorget showed,
Dye-varying on the pigeon;

And for a mantle large and broad,
He wrapt him in Religion."

UPON

Hypocrisy d-la-Mode.

PON a simmer Sunday-morn,
When Nature's face is fair,

I walked forth to view the corn,

And snuff the cauler air.

The rising sun o'er Galston muirs,
Wi' glorious light was glintin';
The hares were hirplin' down the furs,
The lav'rocks they were chantin'
Fu' sweet that day.

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad,
To see a scene sae gay,
Three hizzies, early at the road,
Cam skelpin' up the way.
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,
But ane wi' lyart lining;

The third, that gaed a-wee a-back,
Was in the fashion shining,
Fu' gay that day.

The twa appeared like sisters twin,
In feature, form, and claes;
Their visage withered, lang, and thin,
And sour as ony slaes.

The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp,
As light as ony lambie,

And wi' a curchie low did stoop,

As soon as e'er she saw me,
Fu' kind that day.

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I: "Sweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken me;
I'm sure I've seen that bonny face,
But yet I canna name ye.”

Quo' she, and laughin' as she spak,
And taks me by the hands:

"Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck

Of a' the ten commands

A screed some day.

- your cronie dear,
hae;

The nearest friend ye

And this is Superstition here,
And that's Hypocrisy.

I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,

To spend an hour in daffin':
Gin ye'll go there, yon runkled pair,
We will get famous laughin'
At them this day."

Quoth I: "With a' my heart, I'll do 't;
I'll get my Sunday's sark on,

And meet you on the holy spot -
Faith, we 'se hae fine remarkin'!
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time,
And soon I made me ready;

For roads were clad, from side to side,
Wi' mony a weary body,
In droves that day.

Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith,

Gaed hoddin by their cotters;
There, swankies young, in braw braid claith,
Are springin' o'er the gutters.

The lasses, skelpin' barefit, thrang,
In silks and scarlets glitter;

Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang,
And farls baked wi' butter,

Fu' crump that day.

When by the plate we set our nose,
Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence,
A greedy glowr Black-bonnet throws,
And we maun draw our tippence.
Then in we go to see the show;
On every side they 're gath'rin',
Some carrying dails, some chairs, and stools,
And some are busy blethrin'
Right loud that day.

Here stands a shed to fend the showers,
And screen our country gentry,
There, Racer Jess, and twa-three w
Are blinkin' at the entry.
Here sits a raw of tittlin' jauds,

Wi' heaving breast and bare neck,
And there a batch o' wabster lads,
Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock
For fun this day.

Here, some are thinkin' on their sins,
And some upo' their claes;
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins,
Anither sighs and prays:
On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
Wi' screwed-up, grace-proud faces;

On that a set o' chaps at watch,
Thrang winkin' on the lasses
To chairs that day.

Oh happy is that man and blest!
Nae wonder that it pride him,

Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best,