There let him bouse, and deep carouse,

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,

Till he forgets his loves or debts,
And minds his griefs no more.'

-SOLOMON'S PROVERBS xxxi. 6, 7.

LET other poets raise a fracas

'Bout vines, and wines, and drunken Bacchus,
And crabbit names and stories wrack1 us,
And grate our lug,2

I sing the juice Scotch beare can mak us,
In glass or jug.

O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink,
Whether through wimplin' worms thou jink,*
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink,

In glorious faem,

Inspire me, till I lisp and wink,

To sing thy name!

But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,
There thou shines chief.

Food fills the wame, and keeps us livin';
Though life's a gift no worth receivin'
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine and grievin';
But, oil'd by thee,

The wheels o' life gae down-hili, scrievin',5
Wi' rattlin' glee.

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear;
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair,

At's weary toil;

Thou even brightens dark Despair,

Wi' gloomy smile.

Aft clad in massy siller weed,"

Wi' gentles thou erects thy head;

Yet humbly kind in time of need

The poor man's wing*

His wee drap parritch, or his breat

Then kitchens- ine

Thou art the life o' public harts;
But thee, what were our fairs and rants?
Even godly meetings of the sam

By thee inspired,

When gaping they besiege the tents, †
Are doubly fired.

That merry night we get the corn in,
Oh, sweetly then thou reams the horn in!
Or reckin' on a new-year morning

In cog or bicker,

And just a wee drap spiritual burn in,
And gusty sucker!

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,
And ploughmen gather wi' their graith,
Oh, rare! to see thee fizz and freath

I' the lugget caup!5
Then Burnewin" comes on like death
At every chap.

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

Till block and studdie ring and reel,

Wi' dinsome clamour.

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

Nae howdy gets a social night,
Or plack frae them.

When neibors anger at a plea,

And just as wud as wud 1 can be,

How easy can the barley-bree

Cement the quarrel !

It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee

To taste the barrel.

Alake! that e'er my Muse has reason

To wytell her countrymen wi' treason!

1 Relishest. #Wooden vessels.

Toothsome sugar.

• Implements.

Wooden cup with ears.

6 The blacksmith.

7 Shouting children.

8 Awkward fools.

Ale is frequently taken with porridge instead of milk.

9 Midwife.

10 Mad.

11 Charge.

The refreshment at out-door communions. (See "Holy Fair.")

But mony daily weet their weason1
Wi' liquors nice,

And hardly, in a winter's season,

E'er spier2 her price.

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash!
Fell source o' mony a pain and brash !3
'Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash1
O' half his days;

And sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash
To her worst 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,6
Or foreign gill.

May gravels round his blether wrench,
And gouts torment him inch by inch,
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch?
O' sour disdain,

Out-owre a glass o' whisky punch
Wi' honest men.

O whisky! soul o' plays and pranks !
Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks!

When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks

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 !9

And bake them up in brunstane pies

For poor damn'd drinkers.

Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still

THE following is from the commonplace-book of the poet, and is supposed to

relate to his first serious error.

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,

That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish,
Beyond comparison, the worst are those

That to our folly or our guilt we owe.

In every other circumstance, the mind

Has this to say-"It was no deed of mine;"
But when, to all the evil of misfortune,
This sting is added-" Blame thy foolish self,"
Or, worser far, the pangs of keen remorse—
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt-
Of guilt perhaps where we've involved others,
The young, the innocent, who fondly lo'ed us,
Nay, more-that very love their cause of ruin !
O burning hell! in all thy store of torments,
There's not a keener lash!

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,

Can reason down its agonising throbs;
And, after proper purpose of amendment,
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace?
Oh, happy, happy, enviable man!
Oh, glorious magnanimity of soul!

ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE,

SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY A TAILOR.

THE following is the poet's reply to a rhymed epistle from a tailor near Mauchline, censuring him for his irregular behaviour.

WHAT ails ye now, ye lousie bitch,

To thrash my back at sic a pitch?

Losh, man! hae mercy wi' your natch,

Your bodkin's bauld,

I didna suffer half sae much

Frae Daddie Auld.

What though at times, when I grow crouse,2

I gie the dames a random pouse,

Is that enough for you to souse3

Your servant sae?

Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse

And jag-the-flae.

1 Abundance.

2 Jolly.

3 Scold.

auth.

But fegs,1 the session says I maun
Gae fa' upon anither plan,
Than garrin' lasses cowp the cran

Clean heels owre gowdy,

And sairly thole2 their mither's ban
Afore the howdy.3

This leads me on, to tell for sport,
How I did wi' the session sort:
Auld Clinkum at the inner port

Cried three times-"Robin!
Come hither, lad, and answer for't,

Ye're blamed for jobbin'."

Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on,
And snooved awa' before the session;
I made an open, fair confession-

I scorn'd to lie ;

And syne Mess John, beyond expression,
Fell foul o' me.

A furnicator-1oon he call'd me,

And said my faut frae bliss expell'd me;
I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me,

"But what the matter?"

Quo' I, "I fear unless ye geld me,

I'll ne'er be better."

"Geld you!" quo' he, "and what for no?
If that your right hand, leg, or toe,
Should ever prove your spiritual foe,

You should remember

To cut it aff-and what for no

Your dearest member?"

"Na, na," quo' I, "I'm no for that,
Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't;