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 Muse has dung

A’ kind o’ print;

But wow! the limmer’s fairly flung;

There’s naithing in’t.

I’m fain to think the joy’s the same

In London town as here at hame,

Whare fouk o’ ilka age and name,

Baith blind an’ cripple,

Forgather aft, O fy for shame!

To drink an’ tipple.

O Muse, be kind, an’ dinna fash us

To flee awa’ beyont Parnassus,

Nor seek for Helicon to wash us,

That heath’nish spring;

Wi’ Highland whisky scour our hawses,

An’ gar us sing.

Begin then, dame, ye’ve drunk your fill,

You woudna hae the tither gill?

You’ll trust me, mair would do you ill,

An’ ding you doitet:

Troth ’twould be sair against my will

To hae the wyte o’t.

Sing then, how, on the fourth of June,

Our bells screed aff a loyal tune,

Our ancient castle shoots at noon,

Wi’ flag-staff buskit,

Frae which the soger blades come down

To cock their musket.

Oh willawins! Mons Meg, for you,

’Twas firing crack’t thy muckle mou;

What black mishanter gart ye spew

Baith gut an’ ga’!

I fear they bang’d thy belly fu’

Against the law.