CALLER WATER. WHAN father Adie first pat spade in To fire his mou', Nor did he thole his wife's upbraidin For being fou. A caller burn o' siller sheen, Ran cannily out owr 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 håd a' before the flood Than Noah's line, Wha still hae been a feckless brood Wi' drinking wine. S The fuddlin Bardies now-a-days While ilk his sea of wine displays As big's the Pontic. My Muse will nae gae far frae hame, Or scour a' airths to hound for fame; In troth the jillet ye might blame For thinking on't, Whan aithly she can find the theme This is the name that doctors use They labour still, In kittle words to gar ye roose Their want o' skill. But we'll hae nae sick clitter-clatter, Than whilk I trow, Few drugs in doctor shops are better For me or you. Tho' joints be stiff as ony rùng, Your pith wi' pain be sairly dung, in Caller Water flung, Be you Out o'er the lugs, Twill mak ye suple, swack and young, Tho' cholic or the heart-scad teaze us, That would ye spulzie, And brings them to a canny crisis Wi' little tulzie. Wer't na for it the bonny lasses That aft conveen In gleefu' looks and bonny faces, To catch our ein. The fairest than might die a maid, Could then discover, Whether the features under shade Were worth a lover? As simmer rains bring simmer flow'rs, Sae rich a bloom, As for estate, or heavy dow'rs, Aft stands in room. What maks Auld Reikie's dames sae fair? It cannot be the halesome air, But caller burn beyond compare, The best o' ony, That gars them a' sic graces skair, And blink sae bonny. On May-day, in a fairy ring, We've seen them round St. Anthon's spring, Frae grass the caller dew-draps wring, To weet their ein, And water clear as crystal spring, To synd them clean. O may they still pursue the way, And, like her, be The Goddess of the vocal spray, The Muse and me. THE SITTING OF THE SESSION. PHOEBUS, sair cow'd wi' simmer's height, Cours near the YIRD Wi' blinking light; Cauld shaw the haughs, nae mair bedight Wi' simmer's claes, They heeze the heart o' dowy wight That thro' them gaes. Weel loes me o' you, BUSINESS, now; Withouten fill O' dribles frae the gude brown cow, The COURT O' SESSION, weel wat I, Can criesh the slaw-gaun wheels whan dry Till Session's done, Tho' they'll gie mony a cheap and cry Or twalt o' June. |