XXIII. 'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell How monie ftories past, An' how they crouded to the yill, When they were a' dismist: How drink gaed round, iu cogs an' caups, An' cheese and bread, frae women's laps, An' dawds that day, XXIV. In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife, An' fits down by the fire, Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife, The auld Guidmen about the Grace, Till fome ane by his bonnet lays, An' gi'es them't like a tether, Fu' lang that day. XXV. Waefucks! for him that gets nae lafs, Or laffes that hae naething! How bonie lads ye wanted, An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel, Let laffes be affronted On fic a day! Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin tow, Some fwagger hame the beft they dow, Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an drink, They're a' in famous tune For crack that day. XXVII. How monie hearts this day converts O' Sinners and o' Laffes! Their hearts o' ftane gin night are gane, There's fome are foù o'love divine; An' monie jobs that day begin, Some ither day. DEATH, AND DOCTOR HORN BOOK, SOME A TRUE STORY. SOME books are lies frae end to end, And fome great lies were never penn'd ; Ev'n Minifters they hae been kenn'd, In holy rapture, Great lies and nonsense baith to vend, And nail't wi' Scripture. But this that I am gaun to tell, Is just as true's the Deil's in h-ll, Or Dublin City: That e'er he nearer comes oursel 'S a muckle pity. The Clachan yill had made me canty, I ftacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay To free the ditches: An' hillocks, flanes, an' bufhes kenn'd ay, The rifing Moon began to glowr But whether he had three or four I cou'd na tell. I was come round about the hill, To keep me ficker; Tho' leeward whyles, againft my will I took a bicker. I there wi' Something does forgather, Clear-dangling, hang; A three-tae'd leifter on the ither Lay, large an' lang, Its ftature feem'd lang Scotch ells twa, For fient a wame it had ava, They were as thin, as sharp an' fma', And then its fhanks, As cheeks o' branks. . Guid-een,' quo' I; Friend! hae ye been mawin, When ither folk are bufy fawin * ? *This rencounter happened in feed, time, 1785. XVII. Wee ****** nieft, the Guard relieves, An' Orthodoxy raibles, Tho' in his heart he weel believes, An' thinks it auld wives' fables: But faith the birkie wants a Manse, Altho' his carnal wit an fense Like hafflins-wife o'ercomes him At times that day. XVIII. Now, butt an' ben, the Change-house fills, Wi' yill-caup Commentators : An' there the pint-ftowp clatters: They raise a din, that in the end, Is like to breed a rupture O' wrath that day. XIX. Leeze me on Drink! it gives us mair To kittle up our notion, By night or day. |