Braw days for you, whan fools, newfangle fain,
Like ither countries better than their ain;
For there ye never saw sic chancy days,

Sic balls, assemblies, operas, or plays ;
Hame-o'er langsyne you hae been blythe to pack
Your a' upon a sarkless soldier's back;


you thir lads, as weel-lear'd travellers tell, Had sell'd their sarks, gin sarks they had to sell.

But Worth gets poortith an' black burning shame, To draunt and drivel out a life at hame. Alake! the byword's owr weel kent throughout,

Prophets at hame are held in nae repute;" Sae fair'st wi' me, tho' I can heat the skin, And set the saul upo' a merry pin,

Yet I am hameil; there's the sour mischance!

I'm na frae Turkey, Italy, or France;

For now our gentle's gabs are grown sae nice,

At thee they tout, and never speer my price:




Witness-for thee they height their tenants rent, And fill their lands wi' poortith, discontent;

Gar them o'er seas for cheaper mailins hunt, And leave their ain as bare's the Cairney mount.


Tho' lairds tak toothfu's o' my warming sap.
This dwines not tenants' gear, nor cows their crap;
For love to you there's mony a tenant gaes
Bare-ars'd and barefoot o'er the highland braes:
For you nae mair the thrifty gude wife sees
Her lasses kirn, or birze the dainty cheese;
Crummie nae mair for Jenny's hand will crune,
Wi' milkness dreeping frae her teats adown:
For you owr ear the ox his fate partakes,
And fa's a victim to the bluidy ax.


Wha is't that gars the greedy bankers prieve
The maiden's tocher, but the maiden's leave:


By you whan spulzied o' her charming pose,
She tholes in turn the taunt o' cauldrife joes,
Wi' skelps like this fouk sit but seenil down
To wether-gammon, or howtowdy brown ;
Sair dung wi' dule, and fley'd for coming debt,
They gar their mou'-bits wi' their incomes mett,
Content enough gif they hae wherewithal
Scrimply to tack their body and their saul.


Frae some poor poet, o'er as poor a pot,

Ye've lear❜d to crack sae crouse, ye haveril Scot, Or burgher politician, that embrues

His tongue

in thee, and reads the claiking news:

But waes heart for you! that for ay maun dwell

In poet's garret, or in chairman's cell,

While I shall yet on bein-clad tables stand,

Boudin wi' a' the daintiths o' the land.

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Troth I hae been ere now the poet's flame,
And heez'd his sangs to mony blithesome theme.
Wha was't gar'd ALLIE'S chaunter chirm fu' clear,
Life to the saul, and music to the ear?
Nae stream but kens, and can repeat the lay,
To shepherds streekit on the simmer-brae,
Wha to their whistle wi' the lav'rock bang,
To waukin flocks the rural fields amang.


But here's the browster-wife, and she can tell "Wha's won the day, and wha shou'd bear the bell: Hae done your din, an' let her judgment join In final verdict 'twixt your plea and mine.


In days o' yore, I cou'd my living prize,
Nor fash'd wi' dolefu' gaugers or excise;


But now-a-days we're blithe to lear the thrift
Our heads 'boon license and excise to lift;
Inlakes o' Brandy we can soon supply
By Whisky tinctur'd wi' the saffron's dye..

Will you your breeding threep, ye mongrel loun! Frae hame-bred liquor dyed to colour brown? So flunky braw, whan drest in maister's claise, Struts to Auld Reikie's cross on sunny days, Till some auld comrade, aiblins out o' place, Near the vain upstart shaws his meagre face; Bumbaz'd he loups frae sight, and jooks his ken, Fley'd to be seen amang the tassel'd train...

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