Ere servant-maids had wont to rise
To seeth the breakfast kettle,
Ilk dame her brawest ribbons tries,
To put her on her mettle,
Wi' wiles some silly chiel to trap
(And troth he's fain to get her);
But she'll craw kniefly in his crap,
When, wow! he canna flit her
Frae hame that day.

Now mony a scaw'd and bare-ars'd loun
Rise early to their wark:

Eneugh to fley a muckle town,

Wi' dinsome squeel and bark.

Here is the true and faithfu' list

O' noblemen and horses;

Their eild, their weight, their height, their grist, That rin for plates or purses,

Fu' fleet this day."

To whisky plouks that brunt for ouks
On town-guard sodgers' faces,
Their barber bauld his whittle crooks,
And scrapes them for the races.

Their stumps, erst used to philabegs,

Are dight in spatterdashes,

Whase barken'd hides scarce fend their legs

Frae weet and weary plashes

O' dirt that day.

Come, hafe a care," the captain cries, "On guns your bagnets thraw;

Now mind your manual exercise,

And marsh down raw by raw.'
And as they march he'll glower about,
Tent a' their cuts and scars;

'Mang them full mony a gawsy snout
Has gush't in birth-day wars,

Wi' bluid that day.

"Her nainsel maun be carefu' now,
Nor maun she pe mislear'd,
Sin' baxter lads hae seal'd a vow
To skelp and clout the guard."
I'm sure Auld Reekie kens o' nane
That would be sorry at it,

Though they should dearly pay the kain,
And get their tails weel sautit
And sair thir days.

The tinkler billies i' the Bow,*

Are now loss eident clinkin',
As lang's their pith or siller dow,
They're daffin' and they're drinkin'.
Bedown Leith Walk what bourrachs reel,
O' ilka trade and station,

That gar their wives and childer feel
Toom wames for their libation

O' drink thir days!

The brewster wives thegither harl
A' trash that they can fa' on;
They rake the grunds o' ilka barrel,
To profit by the lawin:

For weel wat they, a skin leal het
For drinkin' needs nae hire:

At drumbly gear they tak nae pet;
Foul water slockens fire

And drouth thir days.

They say, ill ale has been the dead
O' mony a bierdly loon;

Then dinna gape like gleds, wi' greed,

To sweel hale bickers down.

*The West Bow, a street then chiefly occupied by white-iron smiths or "tinklers."

Gin Lord send mony ane the morn,
They'll ban fu' sair the time
That e'er they toutit aff the horn,
Which wambles through their wame
Wi' pain that day.

The Buchan bodies, through the beach,
Their bunch o' findrans * cry;

And skirl out bauld, in Norlan' speech,

Gueed 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 speir The price o' being fu'

Wi' drink that day.

Now wily wights at rowly-powl,
And flingin' o' the dice,

Here break the banes o' mony a soul

Wi' fa's upon the ice.

At first, the gate seems fair and straucht,
Sae they haud fairly till her:
But, wow! in spite o' a' their maucht,
They're rookit o' their siller

And gowd thir days.

Around, where'er you fling your een,
The hacks like wind are scourin':
Some chaises honest fouk 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.

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

* Finnan haddocks, or speldings, a kind of dried fish.

*

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

For, ken, though 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 o' clangour clear,
Baith men and steeds are raingit:
Some liveries red or tartan 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 gaily yarkit
And peel'd thir days.

Siclike in Robinhood debates,*
When twa 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 dules
Wi' drink o' a' kin-kind:

Great feck gae hirplin' hame like fools,
The cripple lead the blind.

May ne'er the canker o' the drink
E'er mak our spirits thrawart,

'Case we get wherewitha' to wink
Wi' een as blue's a blawart,

Wi' straiks thir days!

Alluding to a debating society of that name in Edinburgh, which was afterwards called the Pantheon.

THE ELECTION.

Nunc est bibendum, et bendere Bickerum magnum;
Cavete town-guardum, Dougal Geddum atque Campbellum.

REJOICE, ye burghers, ane an' a',

Lang look'd for's come at last;

Sair were your backs held to the wa'
Wi' poortith and wi' fast.

1

Now ye may clap your wings and craw,

And gaily busk ilk feather,

For Deacon Cocks hae pass'd a law,
To rax and weet your leather

Wi' drink thir days.

"Haste, Epps," quo' John, "and bring my gizz; Tak tent ye dinna't spulzie;

Last night the barber gae't a frizz,

And straikit it wi' ulzie.

Hae done your parritch, lassie Lizz,

Gie me my sark and gravat; I'se be as braw's the Deacon is

When he tak's affidavit

O' faith the day."

"Whar's Johnny gaun," cries neebour Bess,

That he's sae gaily bodin,

Wi' new-kaimed wig, weel syndet face,

Silk hose, for hamely hodin?"

"Our Johnny's nae sma' drink, you'll guess;

He's trig as ony muircock,

And forth to mak a Deacon, lass;
He downa speak to poor fouk
Like us the day."

The coat ben-by i' the kist-nook,

That's been this towmonth swarmin', Is brought ance mair thereout to look, To fleg awa the vermin.