When twilight did my graunie summon, To say her pray'rs, douse, honest woman!

Aft'yont the d.y.k.e she's heard you b.u.mmin, Wi' eerie drone; Or, rustlin, thro' the boortrees comin, Wi' heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, The stars shot down wi' sklentin light, Wi' you, mysel' I gat a fright, Ayont the lough; Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight, Wi' wavin' sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each brist'ld hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch, stoor "quaick, quaick,"

Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter'd like a drake, On whistlin' wings.

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags, They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags, Wi' wicked speed; And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, Owre howkit dead.

Thence countra wives, wi' toil and pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain; For oh! the yellow treasure's ta'en By witchin' skill; An' dawt.i.t, twal-pint hawkie's gane As yell's the bill.

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse On young 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 dissolve the snawy hoord, An' float the jinglin' icy boord, Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction, And 'nighted trav'llers are allur'd To their destruction.

And aft your moss-traversin s.p.u.n.kies Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is: The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies Delude his 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 c.o.c.k or cat your rage maun stop, Or, strange to tell!

The youngest brither ye wad whip Aff straught to h.e.l.l.

Lang syne in Eden's bonie yard, When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, An' all the soul of love they shar'd, The raptur'd hour, Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry swaird, In shady bower;^1

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog!

Ye cam to Paradise incog,

[Footnote 1: The verse originally ran: "Lang syne, in Eden's happy scene When strappin Adam's days were green, And Eve was like my bonie Jean, My dearest part, A dancin, sweet, young handsome quean, O' guileless heart."]

An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, (Black be your fa'!) An' gied the infant warld a shog, 'Maist rui'd a'.

D'ye mind that day when in a bizz Wi' reekit duds, an' reest.i.t gizz, Ye did present your smoutie phiz 'Mang better folk, An' sklented on the man of Uzz Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, An' brak him out o' house an hal', While scabs and botches did him gall, Wi' bitter claw; An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd wicked scaul', Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehea.r.s.e, Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce, Sin' that day Michael^2 did you pierce, Down to this time, Wad ding a Lallan tounge, or Erse, In prose or rhyme.

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, A certain 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 fare-you-weel, auld Nickie-ben!

O wad ye tak a thought an' men'!

Ye aiblins might--I dinna ken-- Stil hae a stake: I'm wae to think up' yon den, Ev'n for your sake!

[Footnote 2: Vide Milton, Book vi.--R. B.]

Scotch Drink

Gie him strong drink until he wink, That's sinking in despair; An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, That's prest wi' grief and care: There let him bouse, an' deep carouse, Wi' b.u.mpers flowing o'er, Till he forgets his loves or debts, An' minds his griefs no more.

(Solomon's Proverbs, x.x.xi. 6, 7.)

Let other poets raise a fracas 'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drucken Bacchus, An' crabbit names an'stories wrack us, An' grate our lug: I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, In gla.s.s or jug.

O thou, my muse! guid auld Scotch drink!

Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink, Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink, In glorious faem, Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink, To sing thy name!

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, An' aits set up their awnie horn, An' pease and beans, at e'en or morn, Perfume the plain: Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, Thou king o' grain!

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, In souple scones, the wale o'food!

Or tumblin in the boiling flood Wi' kail an' beef; But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, There thou shines chief.

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us leevin; Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin, When heavy-dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin; But, oil'd by thee, The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin, Wi' rattlin glee.

Thou clears the head o'doited Lear; Thou cheers ahe heart o' drooping Care; Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, At's weary toil; Though even brightens dark Despair Wi' gloomy smile.

Aft, clad in ma.s.sy siller weed, Wi' gentles thou erects thy head; Yet, humbly kind in time o' need, The poor man's wine; His weep drap parritch, or his bread, Thou kitchens fine.

Thou art the life o' public haunts; But thee, what were our fairs and rants?

Ev'n G.o.dly meetings o' the saunts, By thee inspired, When gaping they besiege the tents, Are doubly fir'd.

That merry night we get the corn in, O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in!

Or reekin on a New-year mornin In cog or bicker, An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, An' gusty sucker!

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, O rare! to see thee fizz an freath I' th' luggit caup!

Then Burnewin comes on like death At every chap.

Nae mercy then, for airn or steel; The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel, Brings hard owrehip, wi' st.u.r.dy wheel, The strong forehammer, Till block an' studdie ring an reel, Wi' dinsome clamour.

When skirling weanies see the light, Though maks the gossips clatter bright, How fumblin' cuiffs their dearies slight; Wae worth the name!

Nae howdie gets a social night, Or plack frae them.

When neibors anger at a plea, An' just as wud as wud can be, How easy can the barley brie Cement the quarrel!

It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, To taste the barrel.

Alake! that e'er my muse has reason, To wyte her countrymen wi' treason!

But mony daily weet their weason Wi' liquors nice, An' hardly, in a winter season, E'er Spier her price.

Wae worth that brandy, burnin trash!

Fell source o' mony a pain an' brash!

Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash, O' half his days; An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash To her warst faes.

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well!

Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, Poor, plackless devils like mysel'!

It sets you ill, Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, Or foreign gill.

May gravels round his blather wrench, An' gouts torment him, inch by inch, What twists his gruntle wi' a glunch O' sour disdain, Out owre a gla.s.s o' whisky-punch Wi' honest men!

O Whisky! soul o' plays and pranks!