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’ gin,

Or haddock lug.

Whan auld Saunt Giles, at aught o’clock

Gars merchant lowns their shopies lock,

There we adjourn wi’ hearty fock

To birle our bodles,

An’ get wharewi’ to crack our joke,

An’ clear our noddles.

Whan Phœbus did his winnocks steek,

How aften at that ingle cheek

Did I my frosty fingers beek,

An’ prie gude fare!

I trow there was na hame to seek

Whan steghin there.

While glakit fools, owr rife o’ cash,

Pamper their wames wi’ fousom trash,

I think a chiel may gayly pass;

He’s nae ill boden

That gusts his gab wi’ oyster sauce,

An’ hen well sodden,

At Musselbrough, an’ eke Newhaven,

The fisher wives will get top livin,

When lads gang out on Sunday’s even

To treat their joes,

An’ tak o’ fat pandores a priven,

Or mussel brose.

Then sometimes, ere they flit their doup,

They’ll ablins a’ their siller coup

For liquor clear frae cutty stoup,

To weet their wizzen,

An’ swallow owr a dainty soup,

For fear they gizzen.

A’ ye wha canna staun sae sicker,

Whan twice you’ve toom’d the big-ars’d bicker,

Mix caller oysters wi’ your liquor,

An’ I’m your debtor,

If greedy priest or drouthy vicar

Will thole it better.

Braid Claith

Ye wha are fain to hae your name

Wrote in the bonny book of fame,

Let merit nae pretension claim

To laurel’d wreath,

But hap ye weel, baith back and wame,

In gude Braid Claith.

He that some ells o’ this may fa,

An’ slae-black hat on pow like snaw,

Bids bauld to bear the gree awa’,

Wi’ a’ this graith,

Whan bienly clad wi’ shell fu’ braw

O’ gude Braid Claith.

Waesuck for him wha has na fek o’t!

For he’s a gowk they’re sure to geck at,

A chiel that ne’er will be respekit

While he draws breath,

Till his four quarters are bedeckit

Wi’ gude Braid Claith.

On Sabbath-days the barber spark,

When he has done wi’ scrapin wark,

Wi’ siller broachie in his sark,

Gangs trigly, faith!

Or to the meadow, or the park,

In gude Braid Claith.

Weel might ye trow, to see them there,

That they to shave your haffits bare,

Or curl an’ sleek a pickly hair,

Wou’d be right laith,

Whan pacing wi’ a gawsy air

In gude Braid Claith.

If only mettl’d stirrah green

For favour frae a lady’s ein,

He maunna care for being seen

Before he sheath

His body in a scabbard clean

O’ gude Braid Claith.

For, gin he come wi’ coat threadbare,

A feg for him she winna care,

But crook her bonny mou’ fu’ sair,

And scald him baith.

Wooers shou’d ay their travel spare

Without Braid Claith.

Braid Claith lends fock an unco heese,

Makes mony kail-worms butterflies,

Gies mony a doctor his degrees

For little skaith:

In short, you may be what you please

Wi’ gude Braid Claith.

For thof ye had as wise a snout on

As Shakespeare or Sir Isaac Newton,

Your judgment fouk wou’d hae a doubt on,

I’ll tak my aith,

Till they cou’d see ye wi’ a suit on

O’ gude Braid Claith.

Leith Races

In July month, ae bonny morn,

Whan Nature’s rokelay green

Was spread o’er ilka rigg o’ corn

To charm our roving een;

Glouring about I saw a quean,

The fairest ’neath the lift;

Her een were o’ the siller sheen,