they a' did wauble, Far, far, behin'! When thou an' I were young an' skeigh, An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, How thou wad prance, an' snore,

pair. Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble, An' wintle like a saumont-coble, That day, ye was a jinker noble, For heels an' win'! An' ran them till

muckle pride, When ye bure hame my bonnie bride: An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride, Wi' maiden air! Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide, For sic a

minnie: Tho' ye was trickle, slee, an' funny, Ye ne'er was donsie: But hamely, tawie, quiet an' cannie, An' unco sonsie. That day ye pranc'd wi'

clear, An' fifty mark; Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, An' thou was stark. When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, Ye then was trottin wi' your

could hae flown out-owre a stank, Like ony bird. It's now some nine-an'-twenty year, Sin' thou was my guid-father's Meere; He gied me thee, o' tocher

Ance in a day. Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, A filly, buirdly, steeve, an' swank, An set weel down a shapely shank, As e'er tread yird; An'

crazy, An' thy auld hide as white's a daisy, I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, A bonny gray: He should been tight that daur't to raize thee,

thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie, I've seen the day Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie Out-owre the lay. Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an'

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR A guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie! Hae, there's a rip to thy auld baggie: Tho'

for your sake!

fare ye well, auld Nickie-ben! O wad ye tak a thought an' men'! Ye aiblins might--I dinna ken-- Still hae a stake-- I'm wae to think upo' yon den Ev'n

Bardie's rantin, drinkin, Some luckless hour will send him linkin To your black pit; But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin, An' cheat you yet. But

Michael did you pierce, Down to this time, Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, In prose or rhyme. An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, A certain

claw, An' lows'd his ill tongu'd, wicked scawl, Was warst ava? But a' your doings to rehearse, Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce, Sin' that day

of Uzz Your spitefu' joke? An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, An' brak him out o' house an' hall, While scabs an' botches did him gall, Wi' bitter

a'. D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz, Ye did present your smoutie phiz 'Mang better folk, An' sklented on the man

snick-drawing dog! Ye came to Paradise incog. An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, (Black be your fa'!) An' gied the infant world a shog, 'Maist ruin'd

first were pair'd, An' all the soul of love they shar'd, The raptur'd hour, Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry sward, In shady bow'r: Then you, ye auld,

your rage maun stop, Or, strange to tell! The youngest brother ye wad whip Aff straught to hell! Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard, When youthfu' lovers

eyes, Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise. When masons' mystic word an' grip In storms an' tempests raise you up, Some cock or cat

To their destruction. An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is, The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys Delude his

dissolve the snawy hoord, An' float the jinglin icy-boord, Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction; An' nighted trav'llers are allur'd

guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse; When the best wark-lume i' the house By cantrip wit, Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit, When thowes

yellow treasure's taen By witching skill; An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen As yell's the bill. Thence mystic knots mak great abuse On young

in kirk-yards renew their leagues Owre howkit dead. Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain: For, oh! the

whistling wings. Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, Tell how wi' you, on rag weed nags, They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags Wi' wicked speed; And

shake. Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick--quaick-- Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake, On

wi' sklentin light, Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright Ayont the lough; Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight, Wi' waving sough. The cudgel in my nieve did

she's heard you bummin, Wi' eerie drone; Or, rustlin, thro' the boortries comin, Wi' heavy groan. Ae dreary, windy, winter night, The stars shot down

fright the nightly wand'rer's way Wi' eldricht croon. When twilight did my Graunie summon, To say her prayers, douce, honest woman! Aft yont the dyke

Unseen thou lurks. I've heard my reverend Graunie say, In lanely glens ye like to stray; Or where auld-ruin'd castles, gray, Nod to the moon, Ye

roaring lion, For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin; Whyles, on the strong-winged tempest flyin, Tirlin the kirks; Whiles, in the human bosom pryin,

name; An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame, Thou travels far; An', faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, Nor blate nor scaur. Whyles, ranging like a

can gie, E'en to a deil, To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, An' hear us squeel! Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame; Far kend an' noted is thy

Spairges about the brunstane cootie, To scaud poor wretches! Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, An' let poor damned bodies be; I'm sure sma' pleasure it

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL O thou! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Kick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, Closed under hatches,

wi' the spavie Frae door to door.

to the Muse, my dainty Davie: The warl' may play you monie a shavie; But for the Muse she'll never leave ye, Tho' e'er so puir, Na, even tho' limpin'

amaist my only pleasure, At hame, a-fiel', at work, or leisure, The Muse, poor hizzie! Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, She's seldom lazy. Haud

put the nieve in, An' while ought's there, Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin', An' fash nae mair. Leeze me on rhyme! it's aye a treasure, My chief,

devil-haet, that I sud ban, They ever think. Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin'; But just the pouchie

late, I think Braw sober lessons. Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, Commen' me to the Bardie clan; Except it be some idle plan O' rhymin' clink, The

Parnassus' brink, Rivin' the words to gar them clink; Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink, Wi' jads or masons; An' whyles, but ay owre

Muse ye hae negleckit; An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket Until yo fyke; Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket, Be hain't who like. For me, I'm on

thro' the weary widdle O' war'ly cares, Till bairn's bairns kindly cuddle Your auld, gray hairs. But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit; I'm tauld the

For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter Some less maun sair. Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle; Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, To cheer you

AULD NIBOR, I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, For your auld-farrent, frien'ly letter; Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, Ye speak sae fair.

Should rue this hasty ride, I'll light now, and dight now His sweaty, wizen'd hide.

spaviet Pegasus will limp, 'Till ance he's fairly het; And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp, An' rin an unco fit: But least then, the beast then