LINES,

To the PRINCIPAL and PROFESSORS of the University of St. Andrews, on their superb Treat to DR SAMUEL Johnson.

ST ANDREW's town may look right gawsy,
Nae grass will grow upo' her cawsey,
Nor wa' flowers o' a yellow dye,

Glowr dowie owre her ruins high,
Sin' Samy's head, weel pang'd wi' lear,
Has seen the Alma Mater there.

Regents! my winsome billy boys!

'Bout him you've made an unco noise; Nae doubt, for him your bells wad clink, To find him upon Eden's brink;

And a' things nicely set in order,

Wad keep him on the Fifan border.

I'se warrant, now, frae France and Spain

Baith cooks and scullions mony ane,
Wad gar the pats and kettles tingle
Around the college kitchen ingle,

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To fleg frae a' your craigs the roup,
Wi' reekin het and crieshy soup:
And snails and puddocks mony hunder
Wad beekin lie the hearthstane under ;
Wi' roast and boil'd, and a' kinkind,
To heat the body, cool the mind.

But hear, my lads! gin I'd been there,
How I'd hae trimm'd the bill o' fare!
For ne'er sic surly wight as he
Had met wi' sic respect frae me.
Mind ye what Sam, the lyin loun!
Has in his Dictionar laid down?
That aits, in England, are a feast

To cow and horse, and sicken beast;

While, in Scots ground, this growth was common

To gust the gab o' man and woman.

Tak tent, ye Regents! then, and hear

My list o' gudely hameil gear;

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Sic as hae aften rax'd the wyme

O' blyther fallows mony a time;
Mair hardy, souple, steeve, and swank,
Than ever stood on Samy's shank.

Imprimis, then, a haggis fat,.
Weel tottled in a seything pat,
Wi' spice and ingans weel ca'd thro',
Had help'd to gust the stirrah's mou,
And plac'd itsel in truncher clean
Before the gilpy's glowrin e'en.

Secundo, then, a gude sheep's head, Whase hide was singit, never flea'd, And four black trotters clad wi' girsle, Bedown his throat had learn'd to hirsle.

What think ye, niest o' gude fat brose,
To clag his ribs, a dainty dose ?
And white and bluidy puddings routh,
Το gar the Doctor skirl, "O Drouth!"

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Whan he could never houp to merit
A cordial glass o' reamin claret,

But thraw his nose, and birze, and pegh,
Owre the contents o' sma' ale quegh.
Then, let his wisdom girn and snarl
O'er a weel-tostit girdle farl,

And learn, that, maugre o' his wyme,

I'll bairns are ay best heard at hame.

Drummond, lang syne, o' Hawthornden,

The wyliest and best o' men,

Has gien you dishes ane or mae,

That wad hae gar'd his grinders play,

Not to "Roast Beef (4)," old England's life!
But to the Auld "East nook o' Fife (5),"
Where Craillian crafts cou'd weel hae gien
Skate-rumples to hae clear'd his een ;
Then, niest, whan Samy's heart was faintiu,

He lang'd for skate to mak him wanton,

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Ah, willawins for Scotland now!
Whan she maun stap ilk birky's mou
Wi' eistacks, grown as 'twere in pet
In foreign land, or greenhouse het,
Whan cog o' brose, and cutty spoon,
Is a' your cottar childers' boon,

Wha thro' the week, till sunday's speal,
Toil for pease-clods and gude lang kail.

Devall then, Sirs, and never send For daintiths to regale a friend ;

Or, like a torch at baith ends burnin,

Your house will soon grow mirk and mournin! ⠀

What's this I hear some cynic say (6)?

Robin, ye loun! its nae fair play;

Is their nae ither subject rifə

To clap your thumb upon but Fife?

Gie owre, young man! you'll meet your cornin, Than caption waur, or charge o' hornin;