Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue : Tho' by the neck she should be strung, An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty, God bless your Honors a' your days, That haunt St. Jamie's! Your humble Poet sings an' prays While Rab his name is. POSTSCRIPT. LET half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies But blythe and frisky, She eyes her free-born, martial boys, What though their Phœbus kinder warms, Or hounded forth, dishonour arms In hungry droves. Their gun's a burden on their shouther; Till skelp-a shot-they're aff, a' throwther, But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, An' there's the foe, He has nae thought but how to kill Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him: Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him; Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him: An' when he fa's, His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him Sages their solemn een may steek, An' physically causes seek, In clime and season; But tell me Whisky's name in Greek, I'll tell the reason. Scotland, my auld, respected Mither! (Freedom and Whisky gang thegither!) THE HOLY FAIR'. A robe of seeming truth and trust And secret hung, with poison'd crust, A mask that like the gorget show'd, Hypocrisy à-la-mode. UPON a simmer Sunday morn, The rising sun owre Galston muirs, The hares were hirplin down the furs, Fu' sweet that day. As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, The third, that gaed a-wee a-back, Was in the fashion shining. Fu' gay that day. I Holy Fair is a common phrase in the West of Scotland for a sacramental occasion. The twa appear'd like sisters twin, The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, As soon as e'er she saw me, Fu' kind that day. Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, 'Sweet lass, Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck A screed some day. My name is Fun-your cronie dear, An' this is Superstition here, An' that's Hypocrisy. I'm gaun to ********* Holy Fair, To spend an hour in daffin: Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair, We will get famous laughin 6 At them this day.' Quoth I, With a' my heart, I'll do't; Faith we'se hae fine remarkin!' Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, An' soon I made me ready; For roads were clad, frae side to side, In droves that day. Here farmers gash, in ridin graith Gaed hoddin by their cotters: There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith, In silks an' scarlets glitter; Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, An' farls bak'd wi' butter Fu' crump that day. When by the plate we set our nose, On ev'ry side they're gathrin, Some carrying dales, some chairs an' stools, An' some are busy blethrin Right loud that day. Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, Here sits a raw of tittlin jades, Wi' heaving breast and bare neck, An' there a batch of wabster lads, Blackguarding frae K- —ck, For fun this day. |