LEITH RACES.

They say, ill ale has been the dead
O' mony a beardly loun:

Then dinna gape like gleds, wi' greed,
To sweel hale bickers down.

Gin Lord send mony ane the morn,
They'll ban fu' sair the time

That e'er they toutit aff the horn,

Which wambles thro' their wame

Wi' pain that day.

The Buchan bodies, thro' the beach,
Their bunch of Findrams cry;

And skirl out bauld, in Norlan speech,
"Guid speldins;-fa will buy ?"

And, by my saul, they're nae wrang gear To gust a stirrah's mou;

Weel staw'd wi' them, he'll never spier

The price o' being fu'

Wi' drink that day.

LEITH RACES.

Now wylie wights at rowly-powl,

And flingin o' the dice,

Here brak the banes o' mony a soul

Wi' fa's upo' the ice.

At first the gate seems fair and straught ; Sae they haud fairly till her:

But, wow! in spite o' a' their maught,

They're rookit o' their siller,

And gowd, thir days.

Around, whare'er ye fling your een,
The haiks, like wind, are scourin :
Some chaises honest fock contain ;

And some hae mony a whore in.
Wi' rose and lily, red and white,
They gie themsels sic fit airs ;
Like Dian, they will seem perfite ;
But it's nae gowd that glitters

Wi' them thir days.

LEITH RACES.

The Lion herc, wi' open paw,
May cleek in mony hunder,

Wha geck at Scotland and her law,
His wylie talons under :

For, ken, tho' Jamie's laws are auld,
(Thanks to the wise recorder!)
His Lion yet roars loud and bauld,
To haud the Whigs in order,

Sae prime this day..

To town-guard drum of clangor clear,
Baith men and steeds are raingit:
Some liveries red or yellow wear;
And some are tartan spraingit.
And now the red,-the blue e'en now,
Bids fairest for the market;

But, ere the sport be done, I trow,

Their skins are gayly yarkit,

And peel'd, thir days.

LEITH RACES.

Siclike in Robinhood debates,

Whan two chiels hae a pingle: E'en now, some coulie gets his aits, And dirt wi' words they mingle; Till up loups he, wi' diction fu',

There's lang and dreech contestin;

For now they're near the point in view ;Now, ten miles frae the question

In hand that night.

The races owre, they hale the dools

Wi' drink o' a kin-kind;

Great feck gae hirpling hame, like fools;

The cripple lead the blind.

May ne'er the canker o' the drink

Mak our bauld spirits thrawart,

'Case we get wherewitha' to wink

Wi' een as blue's a blawart,

Wi' straiks thir days!