His race doth run.

Frae naked groves nae birdie sings,

To shepherd’s pipe nae hillock rings,

The breeze nae od’rous flavour brings

Frae Borean cave,

An’ dwynin’ Nature droops her wings,

Wi’ visage grave.

Mankind but scanty pleasure glean

Frae snawy hill or barren plain,

Whan Winter, ’midst his nipping train,

Wi’ frozen spear,

Sends drift owr a’ his bleak domain,

And guides the weir.

Auld Reikie! thou’rt the canty hole,

A bield for mony a cauldrife soul,

Wha snugly at thine ingle loll,

Baith warm and couth;

While round they gar the bicker roll,

To weet their mouth.

When merry Yule-day comes, I trow,

You’ll scantlins fin’ a hungry mou;

Sma’ are our cares, our stamacks fou

O’ gusty gear,

An’ kickshaws, strangers to our view

Sin’ fairn-year.

Ye browster wives, now busk ye bra’,

An’ fling your sorrows far awa’;

Then come an’ gie’s the tither blaw

O’ reaming ale,

Mair precious than the well o’ Spa,

Our hearts to heal.

Then, tho’ at odds wi’ a’ the warl’,

Amang oursels we’ll never quarrel;

Tho’ Discord gie a cankar’d snarl

To spoil our glee,

As lang’s there’s pith into the barrel

We’ll drink an’ ’gree.

Fidlers, your pins in temper fix,

And rozet weel your fiddle-sticks,

But banish vile Italian tricks

Frae out your quorum,

Nor fortes wi’ pianos mix,

Gie’s Tullochgorum.

For nought can cheer the heart sae weil

As can a canty Highland reel,

It even vivifies the heel

To skip and dance:

Lifeless is he wha canna feel

Its 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,