TO THE TRON-KIRK BELL,

Fleece merchants may look bauld, I trow, Sin' a' Auld Reikie's childer now

Maun stap their lugs wi' teats o' woo,

Thy sound to bang,

And keep it frae gaun thro' and thro'
Wi' jarrin twang.

Your noisy tongue, there's nae abidin't, Like scaulding wife's, there is nae guidin't: Whan I'm 'bout ony bis'ness eident,

Its sair to thole:

To deave me, then, ye tak a pride in't
Wi' senseless knoll,

O! were I provost o' the town,
I swear by a' the pow'rs aboon!

I'd bring ye wi' a reesle down;

Nor shou'd you think

(Sae sair I'd crack and clour your crown) Again to clink.

TO THE TRON-KIRK BELL.

For whan I've toom'd the meikle cap,

And fain wad fa' owre in a nap,

Troth I cou'd dose as soun's a tap,

Wer't na for thee,

That gies the tither weary chap

To waken me.

I dreamt ae night I saw Auld Nick; Quo' he, "This bell o' mine's a trick,

"A wylie piece o' politic,

"A cunnin snare

"To trap fouk in a cloven stick,

"Ere they're aware.

"As lang's my dautit bell hings there,

"A' body at the kirk will skair;

"We dinna care a single hair

"For joyfu' sound.”

TO THE TRON-KIRK BELL.

If magistrates wi' me wad gree,
For ay tongue-tackit shou'd you be ;

Nor fleg wi' anti-melody

Sic honest fouk,

Whase lugs were never made to dree Thy dolefu' shock,

But, far frae thee the bailies dwell,
Or they wad scunner at thy knell;
Gie the Foul Thief his riven bell,

And then, I trow,

The by-word hauds, "The deil himsel "Has got his due."

MUTUAL COMPLAINT

OF PLAINSTANES AND CAUSEY,

In their Mother Tongue..

SIN' Merlin laid Auld Reikie's causey,-
And made her o' his wark right saucy,
The spacious street and gude plainstanes s
Were never kend to crack but anes,
Which happen'd on the hinder night,
Whan Fraser's (2) ulzie tint its light;
O' Highland sentries nane were waukin, .
To hear their cronies glibly tàukin ;
For them this wonder might hae rotten,

And, like night robb'ry, been forgotten,
Hadna a cadie, wi' his lanthorn,

Been gleg enough to hear them bant'rin,.
Wha cam to me neist mornin early,

To gie me tidings o' this ferly..

THE MUTUAL COMPLAINT.

Ye tauntin louns, trow this nae joke, For anes the ass o' Balaam spoke, Better than lawyers do, forsooth, For it spak naething but the truth! Whether they follow its example, You'll ken best whan you hear the sample.

PLAINSTANES.

My friend, thir hunder years and mair We've been forfoughen late and ear', In sunshine, and in weety weather, Our thrawart lot we bure thegither. I never growl'd, but was content Whan ilk ane had an equal stent, But now to flyte I'se een be bauld, When I'm wi' sic a grievance thrall'd; How haps it, say, that mealy bakers, Hair-kaimers, creeshy gizy-makers, Shou'd a' get leave to waste their powders Upo' my beaux and ladies' shoulders?