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Sages their solemn een may steek,
An' raise a philosophic reek,
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! Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather, Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather,

Ye tine your dam; Freedom and Whisky gang thegither !

Tak aff your dram!


A robe of seeming truth and trust

Hid crafty Observation ;
And secret hung, with poison'd crust,

The dirk of Defamation :
A mask that like the gorget show'd

Dye-varying on the pigeon ;
And for a mantle large and broad,
He wrapt him in Religion.

Hypocrisy a-la-mode.

Upon a simmer Sunday morn,

When nature's face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,

An snuff the caller air ;
The rising sun owre Galston muirs,

Wi' glorious light was glintin ;
The hares were hirplin down the furs,
The lav'rocks they were chantin

Fu' sweet that day.

Holy Fair is a common phrase in the west of Scotland for a sacramental occasion. Vol. III,


As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad,

To see a scene sae gay,
Three hizzies, early at the road,

Came skelpin up the way;
Twa had manteeles o’ dolefu' black,

But ane wi’ lyart lining;
The third, that gaed a-wee a-back,
Was in the fashion shining,


that day

The twa appear'd like sisters twin,

In feature, form, an' claes ! 'Their visage, wither'd, lang, an' thin,

An' sour as ony slaes :
The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp,

As light as ony lambie,
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,

I think ye seem to ken me;
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face,

But yet I canna name ye."
Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak,

An' taks me by the hands,
“ Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck
Of a' the ten commands

A screed some day.

My name is Fun-your cronie dear,

The nearest friend ye hae;
An' this is Superstition here,

An' that's Hypocrisy.
I'm gaun to ********* Holy fair

To spend an hour in daffin :
Cin ye'll go there, yon runkl’d pair,
We will get famous laughin

At them this day."

Quoth I, “ With a' my heart, I'll do't ;

I'll get my Sunday's sark on,
An' meet you on the holy spot;

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,
Wi' monie a wearie body,

In droves that day.

Here farmers gash, in ridin graith,

Gaed hoddin by their cotters ;
There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith,

Are springin o'er the gutters.
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,

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,

Weel heaped up wi' ha’pence,
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws,

An’ we maun draw our tippence.
Then in we go to see the show,

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,

An' screen our countra gentry,
There, racer Jess, an' twa-three wh-res,

Are blinkin at the entry.
Here sits a raw of tittlin jades,

Wi' heaving breast and bare neck, An' there a batch o' wabster lads, Blackguarding frae K- ck

For fun this day.

Here some are thinkin on their sins,

An' some upo' their claes ;
Ane curses feet that fyld his shins,

Anither sighs an' prays :
On this hand sits a chosen swatch,

Wi' screw'd-up grace-proud faces ;
On that a set o'chaps at watch,
Thrang winkin on the lasses

To chairs that day.

O happy is that man an' blest!

Nae wonder that it pride him! Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best,

Comes clinkin down beside him! Wi' arm repos’d on the chair back,

He sweetly does compose him ; Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, An's loof upon her bosom

Unkend that day.

Now a' the congregation o'er

Is silent expectation ;
For ****** speels the holy door,

Wi' tidings o' d-mn-t--n.
Should Hornie, as in ancient days,

'Mang sons o' G- present him, The vera sight o' *****'s face, To's ain het hame had sent him

Wi' fright that day.

Hear how he clears the points o' faith

Wi’ rattlin an' thumpin!
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,

He's stampin an' he's juinpin ! His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout,

His eldritch squeel and gestures, O how they fire the heart devout, Like cantharidian plasters,

On sic a day!

But, hark! the tent has chang'd its voiee;

There's peace an' rest nae langer :
For a' the real judges rise,
They canna sit for anger.

opens out his cauld harangues,
On practice and on morals ;
An’aff the godly pour in thrangs,
To gie the jars and barrels

A lift that day.


What signifies his barren shine,

Of moral pow'rs and reason?
His English style, an' gesture fine,

Are a' clean out o' season. Like Socrates or Antonine,

Or some auld pagan heathen, The moral man he does define, But ne'er a word o' faith in

That's right that day.

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In guid time comes an antidote

Against sic poison'd nostrum ;
For *******, frae the water-fit,

Ascends the holy rostrum :
See, up he's got the word o' G-,

An' meek an' mim has view'd it,
Wbile Common-Sense has ta'en the road,
An'aff, an' up the Cowgate",

Fast, fast, that day,

Wee ******, niest, the guard relieves,

An' orthodoxy raibles,
Tho' in his heart he weel believes,

An' thinks it auld wives' fables :

* A street so called, which faces the tent in

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