WHEN father Adie first pat spade in
The bonny yard o' ancient Eden,
amry had nae liquor laid 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-owre 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 had a,' before the flood
A langer tack o' flesh and blood,
And on mair pithy shanks they stood

Than Noah's line.

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The fuddlin bardies now-a-days
Rin maukin-mad in Bacchus' praise,
And limp and stoiter thro' their lays

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

Of aqua font.

This is the name that doctors use

Their patient's noddles to confuse;
Wi' simples clad in terms abstruse,

They labour still, an kittle words to gar ye roose

Their want o skill.

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But we'll hae nae sic clitter-clatter;
-And briefly to expound the matter,
It shall be ca'd guid Caller Water,

Than whilk I trow, Few drugs in doctor's shops are better

For me or you.

Tho' joints be stiff as ony rung,
Your pith wi' pain be sairly dung,
in Caller Water flung

Out o'er the lugs 'Twill mak. ye souple, swack and young,

Withouten drugs.

Tho cholic or the heart-scad teaze us, Or ony

inward dwaam should seize’us, It masters a' sic fell diseases,

That wad ye spulzie, And brings them to a canny crisis

Wi' little tulzie,

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Wer't na for it the bouny lasses
Wad glow'r nae mair in keeking glasses,
An' soon tine dint o' a' the


That aft conveen
In gleefu' looks an' bonny faces,

To catch our een.

The fairest then might die a maid,
An' Cupid quit his shooting trade,
For wha thro' clarty masquerade

Cou'd then discover, Whether the features under shade

Were worth a lover?

As Simmer rains bring Simmer flowers, An' leaves to clead the birken bowers, Sae beauty gets by caller showers,

Sae rich a bloom, As for estate, or heavyd owers,

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 of

ony, That gars them a' sic graces

skair, An' 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 een,
And water clear as crystal spring,

To synd them clean.

O may they still pursue thė way,
To look sae feat, sae clean, sae gay !
Then shall their beauties glance like May,

And, like her, be
The Goddess of the vocal spray,

The Muse, and me.

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