seeth the breakfast kettle,

Ilk dame her brawest ribbons tries,

To put her on her mettle,

Wi’ wiles some silly chiel to trap

(An’ troth he’s fain to get her,)

But she’ll craw kniefly in his crap,

Whan, wow! he canna flit her

Frae hame that day.

Now mony a sca’d and bare-ars’d lown

Rise early to their wark,

Eneugh to fley a muckle town,

Wi’ dinsome squeel an’ bark:

“Here is the true an’ faithfu’ list

O’ noblemen an’ horses;

Their eild, their weight, their height, their grist,

That rin for plates or purses

Fu’ fleet this day”.

To whisky plooks that brunt for wooks

On town-guard soldiers faces,

Their barber bauld his whittle crooks

An’ scrapes them for the races:

Their stumps erst us’d to filipegs,

Are dight in spatterdashes,

Whase barkent hides scarce fend their legs

Frae weet an’ weary plashes

O’ dirt that day.

“Come, hafe a care” (the Captain cries),

“On guns your bagnets thraw;

Now mind your manual exercise,

And marsh down raw by raw”.

And as they march he’ll glowr about,

Tent a’ their cuts and scars;

‘Mang them fell mony a gausy snout

Has gusht in birth-day wars,

Wi’ blude that day.

Her nanesel maun be carefu’ now,

Nor maun she be misleard,

Sin baxter lads hae seal’d a vow

To skelp an’ clout the guard;

I’m sure Auld Reikie kens o’ nane

That would be sorry at it,

Tho’ they should dearly pay the kane,

An’ get their tails weel sautit

An’ sair thir days.

The tinkler billies i’ the Bow

Are now less eident clinking,

As langs their pith or siller dow,

They’re daffin and they’re drinking.

Bedown Leith-walk what bourochs reel

O’ ilka trade and station,

That gar their wives an’ childer feel

Toom wames for their libation

O’ drink thir days.

The browster wives thegither harl

A’ trash that they can fa’ on;

They rake the grunds o’ ilka barrel,

To profit by the lawen:

For weel wat they a skin leal het

For drinking needs nae hire;

At drumly gear they tak nae pet;

Foul water slockens fire,

And druth thir days.

They say ill ale has been the deid

O’ mony a beirdly lown;

Then dinna gape like gleds wi’ greed

To sweel hail bickers down;

Gin Lord send mony ane the morn,

They’ll ban fu’ sair the time

That e’er they toutit aff the horn,

Which wambles thro’ their wame

Wi’ pain that day.

The Buchan bodies thro’ the beech

Their bunch o’ Findrums cry,

An’ skirl out baul’, in Norland speech,

“Guid speldings fa’ will buy?”

An’, by my saul, they’re nae wrang gear

To gust a stirrah’s mow;

Weel staw’d wi’ them he’ll never spear

The price o’ being fu’

Wi’ drink that day.

Now wyly wights at rowly powl,

An’ flingan’ o’ the dice,

Here break the banes o’ mony a soul

W’ fa’s upo’ the ice:

At first the gate seems fair an’ straught

Sae they had fairly till her;

But wow! in spite o’ a’ their maught,

They’re rookit o’ their siller

An’ gowd that day.

Around where’er you fling your een,

The haiks like wind are scourin’;

Some chaises honest folk contain,

An’ some hae mony a whore in;

Wi’ rose and lilly, red and white,

They gie themselves sic fit airs,

Like Dian they will seem perfite;

But it’s nae gowd that glitters

Wi’ them thir days.

The lion here wi’ open paw,

May cleek in mony hunder,

Wha geck at Scotland and her law,

His wyly talons under;

For ken, tho’ Jamie’s laws are auld,

(Thanks to the wise recorder!)

His lion yet roars loud and bauld,

To had the whigs in order

Sae prime this day.

To town-guard drum, of clangour clear,

Baith men and steeds are raingit;

Some liv’ries red or yellow wear,

And some are tartan spraingit;

And now the red, the blue e’en-now,

Bids fairest for the market;

But, ere the sport be done, I trow

Their skins are gayly yarkit

And peel’d thir days.

Siclike in Pantheon debates,

Whan twa chiels hae a pingle;

E’en now some coulie gets his aits,

An’ dirt wi’ words they mingle;

Till up loups he wi’ diction fu’,

There’s lang and dreech contesting;

For now they’re near the point in view,

Now ten miles frae the question

In hand that night.

The races o’er, they hale the dools

Wi’ drink o’ a’ kin-kind;

Great feck gae hirpling hame like fools,

The cripple lead the blind.

May ne’er the canker o’ the drink

E’er mak our spirits thrawart,

’Case we git wharewitha’ to wink

Wi’ een as blue’s a blawart

Wi’ straiks thir days!

The King Birth-day in Edinburg

Oh! qualis hurly-burly fuit, si forte vidisses.

Polemo-Midinia.

I sing the day sae aften sung,

Wi’ which our lugs hae yearly rung,

In whase loud praise the