Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin';
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 the heart o' drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair,
At's weary toil:

Thou even brightens dark Despair
Wi' gloomy smile.

Aft, clad in massy siller weed,
Wi' gentles thou erects thy head;
Yet humbly kind, in time o' need,

The poor man's wine,

His wee 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 godly meetings o' the saunts,

By thee inspir'd,

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' luggèd caup!

Then Burnewin comes on like death

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Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel;
The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel,
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel,

The strong forehammer,

Till block an' studdie ring an' reel

Wi' dinsome clamour.

When skirlin' weanies see the light,
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright
How fumblin' cuifs 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-bree

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 weasan'
Wi' liquors nice,

An' hardly, in a winter's season,

E'er spier her price.

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash!
Fell source o' mony a pain an' brash!
Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash,
Ó' 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,
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch
O' sour disdain,

Out owre a glass o' whisky punch
Wi' honest men !

O Whisky! soul o' plays an' pranks!
Accept a bardie's gratefu' thanks!

When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
Are my poor verses!

Thou comes they rattle i' their ranks

At ither's arses!

Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast!
Now colic-grips an' barkin' hoast

May kill us a';

For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast

Is ta'en awa!

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise,
Wha mak the whisky stells their prize-
Haud up thy hand, deil! Ance-twice - thrice!
There, seize the blinkers!

An' bake them up in brunstane pies

For poor damn'd drinkers.

Fortune! if thou 'll but gie me still
Hale breeks, a bannock, and a gill,
An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will,
Tak' a' the rest,

An' deal'd about as thy blind skill
Directs thee best.

ELEGY ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON,

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD.

O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
The meikle devil wi' a woodie

Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie
O'er hurcheon hides,

And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie
Wi' thy auld sides!

He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn,
The ae best fellow e'er was born!
Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn
By wood and wild,

Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn,

Frae man exil'd.

Ye hills, near neibors o' the starns,
That proudly cock your cresting cairns!
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns,

Where echo slumbers!

Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns,
My wailing numbers!

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!
Ye haz❜lly shaws and briery dens!
Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens,
Wi' toddlin din,

Or foaming strang wi' hasty stens

Frae lin to lin.

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie,

In scented bow'rs ;

Ye roses on your thorny tree,

The first o' flow'rs.

At dawn when ev'ry grassy blade
Droops with a diamond at his head,
At ev'n when beans their fragrance shed
I' th' rustling gale,

Ye maukins, whiddin' thro' the glade,
Come join my wail.

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood;
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud;
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud;
Ye whistling plover;

And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood-
He's gane for ever!

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals;
Ye fisher herons, watching eels;
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels
Circling the lake;

Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,
Rair for his sake.

Mourn, clamouring craiks at close o' day,
'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay;
And, when ye wing your annual way
Frae our cauld shore,

Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay,
Wham we deplore.

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r,
What time the moon wi' silent glowr
Sets up her horn,

Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour
Till waukrife morn!

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains!
Oft have ye heard my canty strains;
But now, what else for me remains
But tales of woe?

And frae my een the drapping rains
Maun ever flow.

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