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 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,