THE SITTING OF THE SESSION.

PHOEBUS, sair cow'd wi' Simmer's hight,
Cours near the yird wi' blinkin light;
Cauld shaw the haughs, nae mair bedight.
Wi' Simmer's claes,

Which heese the heart o' dowie wight

That thro' them gaes.

Weel loes me o' you, Business! now;
For ye'll weet mony a drouthy mou,
That's lang a geyzenin gane for you,

Withouten fill

O' dribbles frae the gude brown cow,
Or Highland gill.

The Court o' Session, weel wat I,

Pits ilk chiel's whittle i' the pye;

Can criesh the slaw-gaun wheels whan dry,

Till Session's done;

THE SITTING OF THE SESSION.

Tho' they'll gie mony a cheep and cry,
Or twalt o' June.

Ye benders a', that dwall in joot,
You'll tak your liquor clean cap out;

Synd your mouse-wabs wi' reamin stout,
While ye hae cash,

And gar your cares a^ tak the rout,

And thumb ne'er fash

Rob Gibb's grey giz, new-frizzled fine,

Will white as ony snaw-ba' shine;

Weel does he loe the lawen coin,

Whan dossied down

For whisky gills, or dribs o' wine,

In cauld forenoon.

Bar-keepers, now,

at outer door,

Tak tent as fouk gang back and fore;

THE SITTING OF THE SESSION.

The fient ane there but pays his score;

Nane wins toll-free;

Tho' ye've a cause the House before,
Or agent be.

Gin ony, here, wi' canker knocks,

And has na lows'd his siller pocks,

Ye needna think to fleetch or cox ;--

"Come, shaw's your gear:

"Ae scabbit yowe spoils twenty flocks :

"Ye's no be here."

Now, at the door they'll raise a plea :-
Crack on, my lads; for flytin's free ;

For gin ye shou'd tongue-tacket be,

The mair's the pity,

When scauldin but and ben we see,
Pendente lite..

THE SITTING OF THE SESSION.

The lawyers' shelves, and printers' presses, Grain unco sair wi' weighty cases;

The clerk in toil his pleasure places,

To thrive bedeen :

At five hours' bell scribes shaw their faces,

And rake their een.

The country fouk to lawyers crook :"Ah, weels me o' your bonny buik!

"The benmost part o' my kist-nook

"I'll ripe for thee,

"And willin ware my

hindmost rook

For my decree."

But Law's a draw-well unco deep,
Withouten rim fouk out to keep;

A donnart chiel, whan drunk, may dreep

Fu' sleely in,

But finds the gate baith stey and steep,
Ere out he win.

THE

2

RISING OF THE SESSION.

To a' men livin be it kend,

The Session now is at an end:

Writers, your finger-nebbs unbend,

And quat the pen,

Till time, wi' lyart pow shall send
Blithe June again.

Tir'd o' the law and a' its phrases,
The wylie writers, rich as Croesus,

Hurl frae the town in hackney chaises,

For country cheer:

The powney that in spring-time grazes

Thrives a' the year.

Ye lawyers, bid fareweel to lies,

Fareweel to din ;-fareweel to fees: