An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, Some luckless hour will send him linkin' 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! FROM 'THE HOLY FAIR.' Now, butt an' ben, the change-house fills, 5 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 i' the neuk, 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, 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, Amang the furms and benches; An' cheese an' bread frae women's laps, Was dealt about in lunches An' dawds that day. 'stir. nook. 3 Minister of Kilmarnock. Shakspeare's Hamlet.-R.B • flaming. ⚫ whinstone. Tale. 8 lumps. In comes a gaucie' gash Guidwife, Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife, The auld guidmen, about the grace, Frae side to side they bother, Till some ane by his bonnet lays, 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", 8 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. • Jolly. EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND'. May 1786. I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, Than just a kind memento; 2 cheese 8 waes me! to peal or roar. ' they can. But how the subject-theme may gang, Let time and chance determine ; And muckle they may grieve ye: I'll no say, men are villains a'; But, och mankind are unco weak, If self the wavering balance shake, Yet they wha fa" in fortune's strife, fall. Yet hae nae cash to spare him. Aye free, aff-han' your story tell, Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can Frae critical dissection ; But keek thro' ev'ry other man, VOL. III. The sacred lowe1 o' weel-placed love, But never tempt th' illicit rove, Tho' naething should divulge it; To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, And gather gear by ev'ry wile The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, The great Creator to revere, Must sure become the creature; Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, An atheist-laugh's a poor exchange When ranting round in pleasure's ring, Religion may be blinded; Or, if she gie a random sting, It may be little minded; 1 flame. N n |