influence.

Let mirth abound, let social cheer

Invest the dawning of the year;

Let blithesome innocence appear

To crown our joy,

Nor envy, wi’ sarcastic sneer,

Our bliss destroy.

And thou, great god of Aqua Vitae!

Wha sways the empire o’ this city,

When fou we’re sometimes capernoity,

Be thou prepar’d

To hedge us frae that black banditti,

The City-Guard.

Elegy on Death of Scots Music

On Scotia’s plains, in days of yore,

When lads and lasses tartan wore,

Saft Music rang on ilka shore,

In hamely weid;

But Harmony is now no more,

And Music dead.

Round her the feather’d choir would wing,

Sae bonnily she wont to sing,

And sleely wake the sleeping string,

Their sang to lead,

Sweet as the zephyrs o’ the Spring;

But now she’s dead.

Mourn, ilka nymph and ilka swain,

Ilk sunny hill and dowie glen;

Let weeping streams and Naiads drain

Their fountain head;

Let Echo swell the dolefu’ strain,

Sin’ Music’s dead.

Whan the saft vernal breezes ca’,

The grey-hair’d Winter fogs awa’,

Naebody than is heard to blaw,

Near hill or mead,

On chaunter, or on aiten straw,

Sin’ Music’s dead.

Nae lasses now, on summer days,

Will lilt at bleachin’ o’ their claes;

Nae herds on Yarrow’s bonny braes,

Or banks o’ Tweed,

Delight to chant their hamely lays,

Sin’ Music’s dead.

At glomin’ now the bagpipe’s dumb,

Whan weary owsen hameward come;

Sae sweetly as it wont to bum,

An’ pibrachs skreed;

We never hear its warlike hum;

For Music’s dead.

Macgibbon’s gane! ah! waes my heart!

The man in Music maist expert,

Wha could sweet melody impart,

An’ tune the reed,

Wi’ sic a slee an’ pawky art;

But now he’s dead.

Ilk carline now may grunt an’ grane,

Ilk bonny lassie mak great mane,

Sin’ he’s awa’, I trow there’s nane

Can fill his stead;

The blythest sangster on the plain!

Alack he’s dead!

Now foreign sonnets bear the gree,

An’ crabbit queer variety

O’ sounds fresh sprung frae Italy,

A bastard breed!

Unlike that saft-tongu’d Melody

Whilk now lies dead.

Could lavrocks, at the dawnin’ day,

Could linties, chirmin’ frae the spray,

Or todlin’ burns that smoothly play

Owr gowden bed,

Compare wi’ Birks o’ Invermay?

But now they’re dead.

O Scotland! that could ance afford

To bang the pith o’ Roman sword,

Winna your sons, wi’ joint accord,

To battle speed,

And fight till Music be restor’d,

Whilk now lies dead?

A Drink Eclogue

(Landlady, Brandy, and Whisky)

O N auld worm-eaten skelf, in cellar dunk,

Whare hearty benders synd their drouthy trunk,

Twa chappin bottles, pang’d wi’ liquor fu’,

Brandy the tane, the tither Whisky blue,

Grew canker’d; for the twa were het within,

An’ het-skin’d fock to flyting soon begin;

The Frenchman fizz’d, and first wad fit the field,

While paughty Scotsman scorn’d to beenge or yield.

Brandy

Black be your fa! ye cottar loun mislear’d,

Blawn by the Porters, Chairman, City-Guard;

Hae ye na breeding, that you cock your nose

Against my sweetly gusted cordial dose,

Ive’ been near pauky courts, and aften there

Hae ca’d hystericks frae the dowy fair;

And courtiers aft gaed greening for my smack,

To gar them bauldly glour, and gashly crack.

The priest, to bang mishanters black and cares,

Has sought me in his closet for his prayers.

What tig then takes the fates, that they can thole

Thrawart to fix me i’ this weary hole,

Sair fash’d wi’ din, wi’ darkness, and wi’ stinks,

Whare cheery day-light thro’ the mirk ne’er blinks.

Whisky

But ye maun be content, and maunna rue,

Tho’ erst ye’ve bizz’d in bonny madam’s mou,

Wi’ thoughts like thae your heart may sairly dunt,

The warld’s now change, its nae like use and wont;

For here, wae’s me! there’s nouther lord nor laird

Come to get heartscad frae their stamack skair’d;

Nae mair your courtier louns will shaw their face,

For they glour eiry at a friend’s disgrace;

But heeze your heart up — Whan at court you hear

The patriot’s thrapple wat wi’ reaming beer;

Whan chairman, weary wi’ his daily gain,

Can synd his whistle wi’ the clear champaign;

Be hopefu’, for the time will soon row round.

Whan you’ll nae langer dwall beneath the ground.

Brandy

Wanwordy gowk! did I sae aften shine

Wi’ gowden glister thro’ the chrystal fine,

To thole your taunts, that seenil hae been seen

Awa frae luggie, quegh, or truncher treem;

Gif honour wad but lat, a challenge shou’d

Twine ye o’ Highland tongue and Highland blude;

Wi’ cairds like thee I scorn to file my thumb,

For gentle spirits gentle breeding doom.

Whisky

Truly I think it right you get your alms,

Your high heart humbled amang common drams:

Braw days for you, whan fools, newfangle fain,

Like ither countries