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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,
Amang the furms and benches;

An' cheese and bread, frae women's laps,
Was dealt about in lunches,

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 laffes they are fhyer.

The auld Guidmen about the Grace,
Frae fide to fide they bother,

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!
Sma' need has he to fay a grace,
Or melvie his braw claithing!
O Wives! be mindfu' ance yourfel,

How bonie lads

ye wanted,

An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel,

Let laffes be affronted

On fic a day!

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin tow,
Begins to jow an' croon;

Some fwagger hame the beft they dow,
Some wait the afternoon.
At flaps the billies halt and blink,
Till laffes ftrip their fhoon:

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,
As faft as any fleth is.

There's fome are foù o'love divine;
Theres fome are fou' o' brandy;

An' monie jobs that day begin,
May end in Houghmagandie

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,
Which lately on a night befel,

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 was na fou, but just had plenty;

I ftacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay

To free the ditches:

An' hillocks, flanes, an' bufhes kenn'd ay,
Frae ghaifts an' witches.

The rifing Moon began to glowr
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre;
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r
I fet myfell;

But whether he had three or four

I cou'd na tell.

I was come round about the hill,
And todlin down on Willie's Mill,
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill,

To keep me ficker;

Tho' leeward whyles, againft my will

I took a bicker.

I there wi' Something does forgather,
That pat me in an eerie fwither;
An' awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther

Clear-dangling, hang;

A three-tae'd leifter on the ither

Lay, large an' lang,

Its ftature feem'd lang Scotch ells twa,
The queereft fhape that e'er I faw,

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,
So, cannilie he hums them;

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 :
Here's crying out for bakes an' gills,

An' there the pint-ftowp clatters:
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang,
Wi' Logic, an' wi' Scripture,

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
Than either School or College:
It kindles Wit, it waukens Lair,
It pangs us fou o' Knowledge..
Be't whisky, gill or penny wheep,
Or ony ftronger portion,
It never fails, on drinkin deep,

To kittle up our notion,

By night or day.

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