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XV.
What signifies his barren shine

Of moral pow'rs and reason ?
His English style, an' esture fine,

Are a' clean out o' season.
Like Socrates or Antonine
Or so

auld pagan Heathen, The moral man he does define, But ne'er a word o' faith in

That's right that day.

XVI.
In guid time comes an antidote

Against sic poison'd nostrum ;
For *******, frae the water-fit,

Ascends the holy rostrum ;
See, up he's got the word of G-,

An' meek an' mim has view'd it,
While Common-Sense has ta'en the road,
An'aff, an' up the Cowgate, *

Fast, fast, that day.

XVII.
Wec ******, niest, 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, cannily he hums them;
Altho' his carnal wit an' sense
Like haffins-ways o’ercomes him

At times that day.
• A street so called, which faces the tent in

XVIII. Now butt an' ben, the Change-house fills,

Wi' yill-caup Commentators : Here's crying out for bakes and gills,

An' there the pint stowp 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.

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XIX.
Leeze me on Drink! it gies 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 stronger potion,
It never fails, on drinking deep,
To kittle up our notion

By night or day.

XX.

The lads an' lasses, blythely bent

To mind baith saul an' body,
Sit round the table weel content,

An' steer about the toddy,
On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk,

They're making observations;
While some are cozie i' the neuk, ;
An' formin assignations,

To meet some day.

XXI.

But now the L-d's ain trumpet touts,

Till a' the hills are rairin,
An' echoes back return the shouts :

Black ****** is na spairin :
His piercing words, like Highland swords,

Divide the joints and marrow ;
His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell,
Our vera sauls does harrow*

Wi' fright that day.

XXII.
A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit,

Filld fou o' lowin brunstane,
Wha's ragin fame, an' scorchin heat,

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane! The half asleep start up wi’ fear,

An' think they hear it roarin, When presently it does appear, 'Twas but some neebor snorin

Asleep that day.

XXIII.
'Twad be owre lang a tale, to tell

How monie stories past,
An' how they crowded to the yill,

When they were a' dismist :
How drink gaed round, in cogs an'

caups, Amang the furms an' benches ; An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, Was dealt about in lunches,

An' dawds that day. • Shakspeare's Hamlet.

XXIV.
In comes a gaucie, gash Guidwife,

An' sits down by the fire,
Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife,

The lasses they are shyer.
The auld Guidmen, about the grace,

Frae side to side they bother,
Till some ane by his bonnet lays,
An gi’es them't like a tether,

Fu’ lang that day.

XXV.
Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,

Or lasses that hae naething !
Sma' need has he to say a grace,

Or melvie his braw claithing !
O wives, be mindfu', ance yoursel,

How bonie lads ye wanted,
An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel,
Let lasses be affronted

On sic a day!

XXVI.
Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin tow,

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 and 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’lasses !
Their hearts o' stane, gin night are gane,

As saft as ony flesh is.
There's some are fou o' love divine ;

There's some are fou o' brandy;
An’ monie jobs that day begin,
May end in Houghmagandie

Some ither day.

DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK.

A TRUE STORY.

SOME books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn'd:
Ev’n Ministers, they hae been kenn'd,

In holy rapture,
A rousing whid, at times, 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 ;

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