2 Let warlocks' grim, an' withered hags, And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, 4 Thence, countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, By witching skill; 6 An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen As yell's the bill. When thowes' dissolve the snawy hoord ", Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord, An' nighted Trav'llers are allured An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkies " Till in some miry slough he sunk is, When masons' mystic word an' grip, The youngest 'brother' ye wad whip Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard, Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird, Then you, ye auld, snick-drawin1 dog! An' played on man a cursed brogue", An' gied the infant warld a shog*, D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz3, An' sklented 9 on the man of Uzz An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, An' lowsed 10 his ill-tongued wicked scaul ", But a' your doings to rehearse, An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin', But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben! I'm wae to think upo' yon den, Ev'n for your sake! ' tripping. ale-cup. FROM THE HOLY FAIR.' Now, butt an' ben, the change-house fills, B 6 Here's crying out for bakes an' gills, An' there the pint-stowp clatters; They raise a din, that, in the end, Is like to breed a rupture O' wrath that day. The lads an' lasses, blythely bent On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, While some are cozie i̇' the neuk2, An' formin assignations To meet some day. But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts, An' echoes back return the shouts ; His piercing words, like Highlan swords, His talk o' Hell, whare devils dwell, Wi' fright that day. A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, The half asleep start up wi' fear, 'Twad be owre lang a tale, to tell An' how they crowded to the yill', How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, An' cheese an' bread frae women's laps, Was dealt about in lunches In comes a gaucie' gash Guidwife, Syne draws her kebbuck 2 an' her knife, The auld guidmen, about the grace, Frae side to side they bother, Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass, Sma' need has he to say a grace, 6 Begins to jow an' croon ; Some swagger hame, the best they dow", Some wait the afternoon. At slaps the billies halt a blink, Till lasses strip their shoon : Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, They're a' in famous tune For crack that day. EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, Than just a kind memento; |