better than their ain;

For there ye never saw sic chancy days,

Sic balls, assemblies, operas, or plays;

Hame-o’er langsyne you hae been blythe to pack

Your a’ upon a sarkless soldier’s back;

For you thir lads, as weel-lear’d trav’llers tell,

Had sell’d their sarks, gin sarks they’d had to sell.

But worth gets poortith an’ black burning shame,

To daunt and drivel out a life at hame.

Alake! the by-word’s owr weel kent throughout;

" Prophets at hame are held in nae repute; "

Sae fair’st wi’ me, tho’ I can heat the skin,

And set the saul upo’ a mirry pin,

Yet I am hameil, there’s the sour mischance!

I’m na frae Turkey, Italy, or France;

For now our gentles gabs are grown sae nice,

At thee they toot, an’ never spear my price:

Witness — for thee they height their tenants rent,

And fill their lands wi’ poortith, discontent;

Gar them o’er seas for cheaper mailins hunt,

An’ leave their ain as bare’s the Cairn-o’-mount.

Bran

Tho’ lairds tak toothfu’s o’ my wamring sap,

This dwines not tenants gear, nor cows their crap;

For love to you there’s mony a tenant gaes

Bare-ars’d and barefoot o’er the Highland braes:

For you nae mair the thrifty gudewife sees

Her lasses kirn, or birze the dainty cheese;

Crummie nae mair for Jenny’s hand will crune,

Wi’ milkness dreeping frae her teats adown:

For you owr ear the ox his fate partakes,

And fa’s a victim to the bluidy aix.

Whisky

Wha is’t that gars the greedy banker prieve

The maiden’s tocher, but the maiden’s leave:

By you when spulzied o’ her charming pose,

She tholes in turn the taunt o’ cauldrife joes;

Wi’ skelps like this fock sit but seenil down

To wether-gammon or howtowdy brown;

Sair dung wi’ dule, and fley’d for coming debt,

They gar their mou’-bits wi’ their incomes met,

Content enough gif they hae wherewithal

Scrimply to tack their body and their saul.

Brandy

Frae some poor poet, o’er as poor a pot,

Ye’ve lear’d to crack sae crouse, ye haveril Scot,

Or burgher politician, that embrues

His tongue in thee, and reads the claiking news;

But waes heart for you! that for ay maun dwell

In poet’s garret, or in chairman’s cell,

While I shall yet on bein-clad tables stand,

Bouden wi’ a’ the daintiths o’ the land.

Whisky

Troth I hae been ere now the poet’s flame,

And heez’d his sangs to mony blythsome theme,

Wha was’t gar’d A LLIE ’s chaunter chirm fu’ clear,

Life to the saul, and music to the ear?

Nae stream but kens, and can repeat the lay

To shepherds streekit on the simmer-brae,

Wha to their whistle wi’ the lav’rock bang,

To wauken flocks the rural fields amang.

Bran. But here’s the browster-wife, and she can tell

Wha’s win the day, and wha shou’d wear the bell;

Hae done your din, an’ let her judgement join

In final verdict ’twixt your plea and mine.

Landlady

In days o’ yore I cou’d my living prize,

Nor fash’d wi’ dolefu’ gaugers or excise;

But now-a-days we’re blyth to lear the thrift

Our heads ’boon licence and excise to lift;

Inlakes o’ Brandy we can soon supply

By Whisky tinctur’d wi’ the saffron’s dye.

Will you your breeding threep, ye mongrel loun!

Frae hame-bred liquor dy’d to colour brown?

So flunky braw, whan drest in maister’s claise,

Struts to Auld Reikie’s cross on sunny days,

Till some auld comrade, ablins out o’ place,

Near the vain up-start shaws his meagre face;

Bumbaz’d he loups frae sight, and jooks his ken,

Fley’d to be seen amang the tassel’d train.

Called Oysters

O’ A ’ the waters that can hobble

A fishing yole or sa’mon coble,

An’ can reward the fisher’s trouble,

Or south or north,

There’s nane sae spacious an’ sae noble

As Frith o’ Forth.

In her the skate an’ codlin sail,

The eel fu’ souple wags her tail,

Wi’ herrin, fleuk, and mackarel,

An’ whitins dainty:

Their spindle-shanks the labsters trail,

Wi’ partans plenty.

Auld Reikie’s sons blyth faces wear;

September’s merry month is near,

That brings in Neptune’s caller cheer,

New oysters fresh;

The halesomest and nicest gear

O’ fish or flesh.

O! then we needna gie a plack

For dand’ring mountebank or quack,

Wha o’ their drugs sae baldly crack,

An’ spread sic notions,

As gar their feckless patients tak

Their stinkin’ potions.

Come prie, frail man! for gin thou art sick,

The oyster is a rare cathartic,

As ever doctor patient gart lick

To cure his ails;

Whether you hae the head or heart ake,

It ay prevails.

Ye tiplers open a’ your poses,

Ye wha are fash’d wi’ pluky hoses,

Fling owr your craig sufficient doses,

You’ll thole a hunder,

To fleg awa’ your simmer roses,

An’ naething under.

Whan big as burns the gutters rin,

Gin ye hae catcht a droukit skin,

To Lucky Middlemist’s loup in,

An’ sit fu’ snug

Owr oysters and a dram o’