round the table, weel content, An' steer about the toddy. On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, They're making observations; While some are cozie

potion, It never fails, on drinking deep, To kittle up our notion By night or day. The lads an' lasses, blythely bent To mind baith saul an' body, Sit

mair Than either school or college: It kindles wit, it waukens lair, It pangs us fou' o' knowledge, Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, Or any stronger

lang, Wi' logic, an' wi' scripture, They raise a din, that, in the end, Is like to breed a rupture O' wrath that day. Leeze me on drink! it gies us

fills, Wi' yill-caup commentators: Here's crying out for bakes and gills, An' there the pint-stowp clatters; While thick an' thrang, an' loud an'

manse, So, cannily he hums them; Altho' his carnal wit an' sense Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him At times that day. Now but an' ben, the Change-house

neist the guard relieves, An' orthodoxy raibles, Tho' in his heart he weel believes, An' thinks it auld wives' fables: But faith! the birkie wants a

o' God, An' meek an' mim has view'd it, While Common-Sense has ta'en the road, An' aff, an' up the Cowgate,[12] Fast, fast, that day. Wee Miller,

day. In guid time comes an antidote Against sic poison'd nostrum; For Peebles, frae the water-fit, Ascends the holy rostrum: See, up he's got the word

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

the jars an' barrels A lift that day. What signifies his barren shine, Of moral pow'rs and reason? His English style, an' gestures fine, Are a' clean

real judges rise, They canna sit for anger. Smith opens out his cauld harangues, On practice and on morals; An' aff the godly pour in thrangs, To gie

the heart devout, Like cantharidian plasters, On sic a day. But hark! the tent has chang'd its voice: There's peace an' rest nae langer: For a' the

calm, now wild in wrath, He's stampin an' he's jumpin'! His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout, His eldritch squeel and gestures, Oh, how they fire

Moodie's face, To's ain het hame had sent him Wi' fright that day. Hear how he clears the points o' faith Wi' ratlin' an' wi' thumpin'! Now meekly

For Moodie speeds the holy door, Wi' tidings o' damnation. Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 'Mang sons o' God present him, The vera sight o'

compose him; Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, An's loof upon her bosom, Unkenn'd that day. Now a' the congregation o'er Is silent expectation;

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

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

thinkin' on their sins, An' some upo' their claes; Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, Anither sighs an' prays: On this hand sits a chosen swatch,

titlin' jades, Wi' heaving breast and bare neck, An' there's a batch o' wabster lads, Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock For fun this day. Here some are

shed to fend the show'rs, An' screen our countra gentry, There, racer Jess, and twa-three wh-res, Are blinkin' at the entry. Here sits a raw of

show, On ev'ry side they're gath'rin', Some carrying dails, some chairs an' stools, An' some are busy blethrin' Right loud that day. Here stands a

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

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

farmers gash, in ridin' graith Gaed hoddin by their cottars; There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith, Are springin' o'er the gutters. The lasses,

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

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'!"

that's Hypocrisy. I'm gaun to Mauchline holy fair, To spend an hour in daffin: Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair, We will get famous laughin' At

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'

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

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

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,

But ane wi' lyart lining; The third, that gaed a-wee a-back, Was in the fashion shining Fu' gay that day. The twa appear'd like sisters twin, In

lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, To see a scene sae gay, Three hizzies, early at the road, Cam skelpin up the way; Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,

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. As

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

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

THE HOLY FAIR. A robe of seeming truth and trust Did crafty observation; And secret hung, with poison'd crust, The dirk of Defamation: A mask that

under noted; Then know all ye whom it concerns,

little in your pat; Sae dinna put me in your buke. Nor for my ten white shillings luke. This list wi' my ain hand I wrote it, the day and date as

dear pay for a saddle; My travel a' on foot I'll shank it, I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit. The kirk and you may tak' you that, It puts but

license out I'm takin'; Frae this time forth, I do declare I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair; Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, Ere I sae

I've paid enough for her already, An' gin ye tax her or her mither, B' the L--d! ye'se get them a'thegither. And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, Nae kind of

wanted. My sonsie smirking dear-bought Bess, She stares the daddy in her face, Enough of ought ye like but grace; But her, my bonnie sweet wee lady,

An' then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me, I ken the devils darena touch me. Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented, Heav'n sent me ane mae than I

I've nane in female servan' station, (Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation!) I ha'e nae wife--and that my bliss is, An' ye have laid nae tax on misses;

Till, faith, wee Davock's turn'd sae gleg, Tho' scarcely langer than your leg, He'll screed you aff Effectual calling, As fast as ony in the dwalling.

fother. I rule them as I ought, discreetly, An' aften labour them completely; An' ay on Sundays, duly, nightly, I on the Questions targe them tightly;

trin'le. For men I've three mischievous boys, Run de'ils for rantin' an' for noise; A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other. Wee Davock hauds the nowt in