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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 wrack us,

And grate our lug, a
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!
Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,
And aits set up their awnie horn,
And peas and beans, at e'en or morn,

Perfume the plain,
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,

Thou king o'grain !
On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,
In souple scones, the wale o' food !
Or tumblin' in the boilin' flood

Wi' kail and beef;
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, 6
Wi' gentles thou erects thy head;

1 Bother. 2 Ear,

3 Beard.

3 Trippingly. 4 Cakes.

6 Silver jugs. * Whether through winding pipes thou steal

Yet humbly kind in tise onee?

The poor mazs *
His wee drap parritch, or bis bread,

Ta Edeco
Thou art the life o public bants;
But thee, what were oor fairs and rants?
Even godly meetings o' the saznts,

By thee inspired,
When gaping they besiege the texts t

Are doably fired
That merry night we get the com in,
Oh, sweetly then thou reams the hom in!
Or reekin' on a new-year moming

In cog or bicker,
And just a wee drap sp'ritual 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

l' 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, Ilow fumblin' cuifs 8 their dearies slight;

Wae worth the name !
Nae howdy gets a social night,

Or plack fraé them.
When neibors anger at a plea,
And just as wud as wud 15 can be,
llow easy can the barley-bree

Cement the quarrel !
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee

To taste the barrel.
Alake I that e'er my Muse has reason

To wyte'l her countrymen wi' treason ! i Relishest.

Wooden cup with ears. 9 Midwife. # Wooden vessels. 8 The blacksmith.

10 Mad. Toothsome sugar, ? Shouting children.

11 Charge. # Implements

8 Awkward fools. Ale is frequently taken with porridge instead of milk. The refreshment at out-door communions. (See “ Holy Fair.")

But mony daily weet their weason 2

Wi' liquors nice,
And hardly, in a winter's season,

E’er spiero her price.
Wae worth that brandy, burning trash !
Fell source o'mony a pain and brash !3
'Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash4

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's wines to mell,

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

Are my poor verses !
Thou comes--they rattle i' their ranks

At ither's a-es.

Thee, Ferintosh ! oh, sadly lost !
Scotland lament frae coast to coast !
Now colic grips, and barkin' hoast, 8

May kill us a';
For loyal Forbes's charter'd boast,

Is ta'en awa'!

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

damn'd drinkers. Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me still Hale breeks, a scone, and whisky gill,

For poor

1 Throat.
2 Ask.
3 Sickness.

4 Rough fellow.
5 Dear.
6 Meddle.

7 Face with a grin.
8 Cough.
9 A term of contempt.

And rowth o'rhyme to rave at will,

Tak a' the rest,
And deal't about as thy blind skill

Directs thee best.

99

REMORSE.

A FRAGMENT. 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,
Cari 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, a
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.

King David, o' poetic brief,
Wrought ’mang the lasses sic mischief
As fill'd his after life wi' grief

And bluidy rants,
And yet he's rank'd among the chief

O'lang-syne saunts.
And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants,
My wicked rhymes, and drucken rants,
I'll gie auld cloven Clootie's haunts

An unco slip yet,
And snugly sit among the saunts

At Davie's hip yet.
But fegs, 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 4 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-loon he call'd me,
And said my faut frae bliss expellid 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 ;

rith.

Bear.

3 Midwife

4 Sneaked.

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