1 brewer.

Ye browster1 wives! now busk ye bra,
And fling your sorrows far awa';
Then, come and gie's the tither blaw"
Of reaming ale,

Mair precious than the Well of Spa,
Our hearts to heal.

Then, tho' at odds wi' a' the warl',
Amang oursells we'll never quarrel;
Tho' Discord gie a canker'd snarl
To spoil our glee,

As lang's there's pith into the barrel
We'll drink and 'gree.

Fiddlers! your pins in temper fix,
And roset weel your fiddlesticks,
But banish vile Italian tricks

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
Invest the dawning of the year;
Let blithesome innocence appear
To crown our joy;

Nor envy, wi' sarcastic sneer,

Our bliss destroy.

And thou, great god of aqua vitæ!

Wha sways the empire of this city

When fou we're sometimes capernoity —

* pegs.

rosin

• Printed four years before Skinner's 'Tullochgorum' (p. 491). 7 ill-tempered

BRAID CLAITH.

Ye wha are fain to hae your name
Wrote in the bonny book of fame,
Let merit nae pretension claim

To laurel'd wreath,

But hap1 ye weel, baith back and wame,
In gude Braid Claith.

He that some ells o' this may fa',
An' slae-black hat on pow* like snaw,
Bids bauld to bear the gree" awa',
Wi' a' this graith',

8

Whan bienly clad wi' shell fu' braw

O' gude Braid Claith.

Waesuck for him wha has nae fek o't!
For he's a gowk 10 they're sure to geck
A chield that ne'er will be respekit

While he draws breath,

Till his four quarters are bedeckit
Wi' gude Braid Claith.

On Sabbath-days the barber spark,
Whan he has done wi' scrapin wark,
Wi' siller broachie in his sark 12,

Gangs trigly, faith!

Or to the Meadow or the Park,

In gude Braid Claith.

Weel might ye trow, to see them there,
That they to shave your haffits 13 bare,
Or curl an' sleek a pickle 14 hair,

Wud be right laith 15

When pacing wi' a gawsy air"

2

pre eminence.

" toss the head.

16

11

at,

9

quantity.

10 fool.

14 little.

15 loath.

16 looking big.

⚫ well.

If ony mettled stirrah' grien'
For favour frae a lady's ein,
He mauna care for being seen

Before he sheath

His body in a scabbard clean

O' gude Braid Claith.

For gin he comes wi' coat thread-bare,

4

A feg for him she winna care,

But crook her bony mou' fu' sair,

An' scald him baith.

Wooers shou'd ay their travel spare
Without Braid Claith.

Braid Claith lends fouk an unco heese?
Makes mony kail-worms butter-flies,
Gies mony a doctor his degrees

For little skaith":

In short, you may be what you please
Wi' gude Braid Claith.

For thof ye had as wise a snout on,
As Shakespeare or Sir Isaac Newton,
Your judgment fouk wud hae a doubt on,
I'll tak' my aith,

Till they cou'd see ye wi' a suit on
O' gude Braid Claith.

Whan father Adie' first pat spade in
The bonny yeard 10 of antient Eden "
12 had nae liquor laid in,

His amry

'Langsyne in Eden's bonny yard.'-Burns' Address to the Deil.

12 cupboard.

A caller burn o' siller sheen,

Ran cannily out o'er the green,

And whan our gutcher's' drouth had been
To bide right sair,

He loutit down and drank bedeen'

A dainty skair'.

His bairns a' before the flood

Had langer tack o' flesh and blood,
And on mair pithy shanks they stood
Than Noah's line,

Wha still hae been a feckless brood
Wi' drinking wine.

The fuddlin' Bardies now-a-days
Rin maukin -mad in Bacchus' praise,
And limp and stoiter' thro' their lays
Anacreontic,

While each his sea of wine displays

As big's the Pontic.

My muse will no gang far frae hame,
Or scour a' airths to hound for fame;

8

Whan eithly 10 she can find the theme
Of aqua font.

This is the name that doctors use
Their patients' noddles to confuse ;
Wi' simples clad in terms abstruse,
They labour still,
In kittle words to gar your roose
Their want o' skill.

11

12

But we'll hae nae sick clitter-clatter,
And briefly to expound the matter,
It shall be ca'd good Caller Water,
Than whilk, I trow,

Few drogs in doctors' shops are better

1 staff.

Tho' joints are stiff as ony rung',
Your pith wi' pain be fairly dung,
Be you in Caller Water flung

Out o'er the lugs3,

4

"Twill mak you souple, swack and young,
Withouten drugs.

Tho' cholic or the heart-scad teaze us,

Or ony inward pain should seize us,

It masters a' sic fell diseases

That would ye spulzie",

And brings them to a canny crisis
Wi' little tulzie.

Wer't na for it the bonny lasses

Would glowr nae mair in keeking-glasses",
And soon tine dint o' a' the graces

8

That aft conveen

In gleefu' looks and bonny faces,

To catch our ein,

The fairest then might die a maid,
And Cupid quit his shooting trade,
For wha thro' clarty' masquerade

Could then discover,

Whether the features under shade
Were worth a lover?

ODE TO THE GOWDSPINK 10.

Frae fields where Spring her sweets has blawn
Wi' caller verdure o'er the lawn,

The gowdspink comes in new attire,

The brawest 'mang the whistling choir,
That, ere the sun can clear his ein,

Wi' glib notes sane 11 the simmer's green.

Sure Nature herried 12 mony a tree,

For spraings 18 and bonny spats to thee;

7 looking-glasses.

4 nimble. lose regard for.

• spoil.

dirty.

11 bless. 12 plundered. 13 different coloured stripes.