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Ilk loun rebellious to tak,
Wha walks not i' the proper track,
And o' three shillins Scottish suck him ;
Or in the water-hole sair douk him ;
This might assist the poor's collection,
And gie baith parties satisfaction.
But first, I think, it will be good, To bring it to the Robinhood, (3) Whare we sall hae the question stated, And keen and crabbitly debated, Whether the provost and the bailies, For the town's gude whase daily toil is, Shou'd listen to our joint petitions, And see obtemper'd the conditions.
Content am I.-But east the gate is The Sun, wha taks his leave o' Thetis,
And comes to wauken honest fouk,
to wark at sax o'Clock.
It sets us to be dumb a while,
And let our words gie place to toil.
LANDLADY, BRANDY, AND WHISKY,
ON auld worm-eaten skelf, in cellar dunk,
Whare hearty benders synd their drouthy trunk,
Twa chappin bottles, bang’d wi' liquor fu',
Brandy the tane,--the tither Whisky blue,
Grew canker'd; for the twa were het within,
And het-skinn'd fouk to flytin soon begin.
The Frenchman fizz’d, and first wad foot the field,
While paughty Scotsman scorn'd to beenge or
Black be your fa', ye cotter loun mislear'd !
Blawn by the Porters, Chairmen, City Guard :
Hae ye nae breedin, that you cock your nose
Against my sweetly-gusted cordial dose ?
I've been near pawky courts, and, aften there,
Hae ca'd hysterica frae the dowie fair ;
And courtiers aft gaed greenin for my smack,
To gar them bauldly glowr, and gashly crack.
The priest, to bang mishanters black, and cares,
Has sought me in his closet for his prayers.
What tid then taks the fates, that they can thole
Thrawart to fix me i' this weary hole,
Sair fash'd wi' din, wi' darkness, and wi' stinks,
Whare cheery day-light thro’the mirk ne'er blinks ?
ye maun be content, and maunna rue Tho' erst ye've bizz'd in bonny madam's mou. Wi thoughts like thae, your heart may sairly dunt, The warld's now chang’d; it's nae like use and
For here, wae's me! there's nouther lord nor laird Comes, to get heartscad frae their stamack skair’d. Nae mair your courtier louns will shaw their face ; Tor they glowr eery at a friend's disgrace.
But heese your heart-up:—Whan at court you hear
The patriot's thrapple wat wi' reamin beer ;
Whan chairman, weary wi' his daily gain,
Can synd his whistle wi' the clear Champaign ;
Be hopefu', for the time will soon row round,
Whan you'll nae langer dwall beneath the ground.
Wanwordy gowk! did I sae aften shine
Wi' gowden glister thro' the crystal fine,
To thole your taunts, that seenil hae been seen
Awa frae luggie, quegh, or truncher treein ;
Gif honour wad but let, a challenge shou'd
Twine ye o' Highland tongue and Highland bluđe ;
Wi cards like thee I scorn to file
my thumb; For gentle spirits gentle breeding doom.
Truly, I think it right you get your alms,
Your high leart humbled amang common drams: