His piercin words, like Highlan' swords, Wi' fright that day! A vast, unbottomed, boundless pit, Asleep that day. 'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell An' how they crouded to the yill, An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, An' dawds that day. In comes a gawsie, gash guidwife, Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife; The auld guidmen about the grace Till some, ane by his bonnet lays Fu' lang that day. Waesucks for him that gets nae lass, Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin tow, Some swagger hame the best they dow, At slaps the billies halt a blink, Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, For crack that day. How monie hearts this day converts Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gaen There's some are fou o' love divine, An' monie jobs that day begin, May end in houghmagandie Some ither day. TO A LOUSE ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie? Ower gauze and lace, Tho', faith, I fear ye dine but sparely Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, Sae fine a lady! Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner Swith! in some beggar's hauffet squattle; There ye may creep and sprawl and sprattle Wi' ither kindred jumping cattle, In shoals and nations, Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle Your thick plantations. Now haud you there! ye're out o' sight, The vera tapmost, tow'ring height My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, I'd gie ye sic a hearty dose o't I wad na been surprised to spy But Miss's fine Lunardi-fie! O Jenny, dinna toss your head, Thae winks an' finger-ends, I dread, O wad some Power the giftie gie us It wad frae monie a blunder free us, What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, FROM EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK I am nae poet, in a sense, But just a rhymer like by chance, Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, Your critic-folk may cock their nose, And say, 'How can you e'er propose, You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, To mak a sang?' But, by your leaves, my learnèd foes, Ye're maybe wrang. What's a' your jargon o' your schools, Ye'd better taen up spades and shools A set o' dull, conceited hashes Confuse their brains in college classes; They gang in stirks, and come out asses, Plain truth to speak; An' syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o' Greek! Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, My Muse, tho' hamely in attire, THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT My loved, my honoured, much respected friend! The native feelings strong, the guileless ways, Ah, though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween! At length his lonely cot appears in view, Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown, Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parents dear if they in hardship be. |