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THE RISING OF THE SESSION.

The canny hours o' rest may please,

Instead o'siller :: : Hain'd mu'ter hauds the mill at ease,

And fends the miller.

Blithe may they be wha wanton play
-In Fortune's bonny blinkin ray,
Fu' weel can they ding dool away,

Wi' comrades couthy, And never dree a hungert day,

Or e'enin-drouthy.

Ohon the day ! for him that's laid
In dowie poortith's cauldrife shade;
Aiblins owre honest for his trade,

He racks his wits,
How he may get his buik weel clad,

And fill his guts.

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THE RISING OF THE SESSION.

The farmers' sons, as yap as sparrows, Are glad, I trow, to flee the barras, And whistle to the pleugh and harrows

At barley seed : What writer wadna gang as far as

He could for bread.

After their yokin, I wat weel
They'll stoo the kebbuck to the heel;
Eith can the pleugh-stilts gar a chiel

Be unco vogie,
Clean to lick aff his crowdy-meal,

And scart his cogie.

Now mony a fallow's dung adrift
To a' the blasts beneath the lift;
And tho' their stamack's aft in tift,

In vacance time,
Yet seenil do they ken the rift

O'stappit wame.

THE RISING OF THE SESSION.

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Now gin a notar shou'd be wanted, You'll find the pillars gayly planted ; For little thing protests are granted

Upo' a bill, And weightiest matters covenanted

For half a gill.

Nae body taks a mornin drib
O' Holland gin frae Robin Gibb;
And tho' a dram to Rob's mair sib

Than is his wife,
He maun tak time to daut his Rib,

Till siller's rife.

This vacance is a heavy doom 3
On Indian Peter's coffee-room,
For a' his china pigs are toom;

Nor do we see
In wine the sucker biskets soom

As light's a flee.

THE RISING OF THE SESSION.

But stop, my Muse, nor mak a mane,
Pate does na fend on that alane;
He can fell twa dogs wi' ae bane,

While ither fouk
Maun rest themsels content wi' anex

Nor farer trock.

you a while

Ye change-house keepers never grumble, Tho'

your

bickers whumble, Be unco patientfu' and humble,

Nor mak a din, Tho' gude joot binna kent to rumble

Your wame within.

You needna grudge to draw your

breath For little mair than half a reath;. Than, gin we a' be spar'd frae death,

We'll gladly prie Fresh noggans o' your reaming graith

Wi' blithesome glee.

LEITH RACES.

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IN July month, ae bonny morn »

When Nature's rokelay green Was spread owre ilka rig o' corn,

To charm our rovin een ;
Glowrin about, I saw a quean,

The fairest 'neath the lift:
Her een were o' the siller sheen;
Her skin, like snawy drift,

Sae white that day.

Quo' she, “I ferly unco sair, 6. That

ye

sud musin gae ; « Ye wha hae sung o' Hallow-fair,

“ Her Winter's pranks, and play; « Whan on Leith-sands the racers rare

“ Wi' Jocky louns are met, « Their orra pennies there to ware, * And drown themsels in debt

Fu' deep that day.”

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