Wha fhaws her breast as white's a lilie,
And leggies tight,

Gofh! cou'd a prieft reftrain his willie
In fic a plight!

Sae to the whuns, frae 'mang the thrang,
Whiles ane or twa or fae wad gang ;
Where tales o' love, and eke a fang,
Shot time away,

And youngfters got, what they did lang
For-mony a day.

Amang the lave was kintry Johny,
Wi' his joe Meg, as brae as ony:
She thought, nae doubt, herfel' as bony

As ony there;

But, lang ere e'en, her cockernony

Was toozel'd fair:

She, filly, fimple, hame-bred hizzy,

Had never feen a rakish phizzy,

Sae took, frae chields wha were right hizzy,

O' ufquabae,

’Till, laik-a-nie! baith fick and dizzy

Was she, that day.

At times like this, when chields are skairin'

Wi' ilka ane they meet, a fairin',

They ll never ftap to cry for mair in

O' liquor clear;

But women-fowk fhou'd ay be fpairin'

O' ficcan gear:

For, owr the mind when Drink prefides, To pranks o' fin and fhame it guides; In Wisdom's ways it never prides,

But brings to light

A thousand fau'ts, which reafon hides

Clean out o' fight.

Bi this time now, wi' mony a dunner, Auld guns were brattlin aff like thunner: Auld fowk, wi' joints maist dung asunner, Were in difmay ;

For fhou'der-blades gat mony a lunner Frae guns, that day.

-Hech! fic a weary wark was here

Tween mad Ambition and bafe Fear! It fennil fails, or far or near,

That mony a fcore

Are keen o' trades which Nature ne'er

Ordain'd them for.

Ae fallow there, puir filly cawf,

Held out his gun as't been a ftaff,
Turn'd back his head, tho' haff-and-haff

He was, they fay,

And, panting, cry'd," Sirs! is fhe aff?"

Wi' fear, that day.."

Anither chield, wae worth the loon, Rampag'd and curs'd like a dragoon;

But leaning on his hunkers down,

To fire

away,

He misbehav'd, which did confound
A' fowk that day!

Puir gowk! ne'er us'd wi' wars alarms, Or taught to handle fire-arms,

His fears forefaw a thousand harms

Approaching faft,

Till Nature, veiling a' her charms,

Gaed way at laft.

To crown the hale

-about the gloamin,

The Siller Gun was won bi* no man!

Warfe deeds hae gi'en to mony a Roman
Eternal fame;

But prodigies are grown fae common,

They've tint the name!

Proud wi' their luck, (afore tho' doufe
And quaint as ony haff-fell'd mouse,)
E'en now, the taylors craw'd fae croufe,
I'll gi'e my aith,

Had ony ane cry'd "Prick-a-loufe !"

There had been skaith.

Syne, hame they gaed. Like magic spell, Some foiter'd owr, and ithers fell;

* In 1777, the Silver Gun was won by a member of the incorporation of Taylors.

While mony a ane, the Mufe cou'd tell,
Like new-fpean'd weans,

Cou'd nowther gang, unheld, themfel',

Or ftand their lanes.

But, fhou'd the canty Mufy reel Owr a' the pranks o' ilka chiel,'

She'd, may be, tramp on fome fair heel,

(O duil and wae')

Whafe neeves wad, aeblins, gar her squeel
For that fome day!

CANTO

CANTO III.

S, in the courfe o' fome campain,
The grun is cover'd owr wi' flain ;
Sae now, in Barleycornian ftrain,

Ye eith might view,

Ahint the lave, some fallows fain

To lye and spew.

Ithers again, juist haff-and-haff, (Ay nichrin' out the tither gaaff) Dang mony a hat and wiggie off

In wanton play,

Till, peace be here! wi' neeve and staff

They feught that day!

As flames frae sparks their greatness rear,

Ast daffin leads to bluidy weir;

It chanc'd, a dainty foutar here,

Like Crifpin dreft,

Had a' the robes which princes wear

At birth-day feail;

This drefs, tho' nought cou'd happen droller,

Bred the puir foutar meikle dolour: