THE DAFT DAYS, [Corresponding in Scotland to Christmas holidays in England.] Now mirk1 December's dowie 2 face 3 Glowrs owr the rigs wi' sour grimace, Wi' blinkin light and stealing pace, From naked groves nae birdie sings; 4 And dwyning Nature droops her wings, Mankind but scanty pleasure glean Sends drift owr a' his bleak domain, And guides the weir. Auld Reikie! thou'rt the canty hole, Baith warm and couth; While round they gar the bicker' roll When merry Yule-day comes, I trow, And kickshaws, strangers to our view, I brewer. Ye browster' wives! now busk ye bra, Mair precious than the Well of Spa, Then, tho' at odds wi' a' the warl', As lang's there's pith into the barrel Fiddlers your pins in temper fix, From out your quorum, Nor fortes wi' pianos mix Gie's Tullochgorum". For nought can cheer the heart sae weel As can a canty Highland reel; It even vivifies the heel To skip and dance: Lifeless is he wha canna feel Its influence. Let mirth abound; let social cheer Nor envy, wi' sarcastic sneer, Our bliss destroy. And thou, great god of aqua vitæ! Wha sways the empire of this city- To hedge us frae that black banditti, The City Guard. 2 Printed four years before Skinner's "Tullochgorum' (p. 491) 3 ill-tempered. 1 cover. BRAID CLAITH. Ye wha are fain to hae your name To laurel'd wreath, But hap1 ye weel, baith back and wame, He that some ells o' this may fa'', 4 Wi' a' this graith", Whan bienly clad wi' shell fu' braw Waesuck for him wha has nae fek" o't! 8 For he's a gowk they're sure to geck9 at, While he draws breath, Till his four quarters are bedeckit Wi' gude Braid Claith. On Sabbath-days the barber spark, Or to the Meadow or the Park, In gude Braid Claith. Weel might ye trow, to see them there, Wud be right laith 12, When pacing wi' a gawsy air 13 If ony mettled stirrah1 grien' His body in a scabbard clean O' gude Braid Claith. For gin3 he comes wi' coat thread-bare, But crook her bony mou' fu' sair, An' scald him baith. Wooers shou'd ay their travel spare Braid Claith lends fouk an unco heese' For little skaith": In short, you may be what you please For thof ye had as wise a snout on, Till they cou'd see ye wi' a suit on FROM CALLER Water.' 8 Whan father Adie' first pat spade in Nor did he thole his wife's upbraidir' A caller burn o' siller sheen, Ran cannily out o'er the green, And whan our gutcher's1 drouth had been He loutit down and drank bedeen' A dainty skair. His bairns a' before the flood Had langer tack o' flesh and blood, Wha still hae been a feckless brood The fuddlin' Bardies now-a-days While each his sea of wine displays 6 My muse will no gang far frae hame, 8 For thinking on 't, This is the name that doctors use But we'll hae nae sick clitter-clatter, Few drogs in doctors' shops are better |