A wee soup drink does unco weel,
To haud the heart aboon;

It's gude, as lang's a canny chiel
Can stand steeve in his shoon.

But gin a birkie's owre weel sair'd,
gars him aften stammer


To pleys that bring him to the guard,

And eke the council-chaumir

Wi' shame that day.




HERDS! blithesome tune your canty reeds,

And welcome to the gowany meads
The pride o' a' the insect thrang,

A stranger to the green sae lang.
Unfauld ilk buss, and ilka brier,

The bounties o' the gleesome year,
To Him whase voice delights the spring;
Whase soughs the saftest slumbers bring.

The trees in simmer cleedin drest, The hillocks in their greenest vest, The brawest flow'rs rejoic'd we see Disclose their sweets, and ca' on thee, Blithely to skim on wanton wing

Thro' a' the fairy haunts o' Spring.

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Whan fields hae gat their dewy gift,
An' dawnin breaks upo' the lift,

Then gang your wa's thro' hight and howe,
Seek caller haugh or sunny knowe,
Or ivy craig, or burn-bank brae,
Whare industry shall bid you gae,
For hiney, or for waxen store,
To ding sad poortith frae the door.

Cou'd feckless creature, man, be wise,

The simmer o' his life to prize,

In winter he might fend fu' bauld,
His eild unkend to nippin cauld;

Yet thir, alas! are antrin fouk,

Wha lade their scape wi' winter stock.
Auld age maist feckly glowrs right dour

Upo' the ailings o' the poor,

Wha houp for nae comforting, save

That dowie, dismal house, the grave.


Then, feeble man, be wise; tak tent
How Industry can fetch content:
Behold the bees whare'er they wing,
Or thro' the bonny bowers o' Spring,
Whare vi'lets or whare roses blaw,
And siller dew-drops nightly fa',
Or whan on open bent they're seen,
On hether hill or thristle green;
The hiney's still as sweet that flows
Frae thristle cauld, or kendlin rose.

Frae this the human race may learn Reflection's hiney'd draps to earn, Whether they tramp life's thorny way, Or thro' the sunny vineyard stray.

Instructive bee! attend me still; Owre a' my labours sey your skill: For thee shall hineysuckles rise,


Wi' ladin to your busy thighs,
And ilka shrub surround my cell,
Whareon ye like to hum and dwell:
My trees in bourachs owre my ground
Shall fend ye frae ilk blast o' wind:
Nor e'er shall herd, wi' ruthless spike,
Delve out the treasures frae your bike,
But in my fence be safe, and free

To live, and work, and sing, like me.

Like thee, by Fancy wing'd, the Musc Scuds ear' an' heartsome owre the dews, Fu' vogie, an' fou blithe to crap The winsome flowers frae Nature's lap, Twinin her livin garlands there,

That lyart Time can ne'er impair.

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