Now haud ye there, ye're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rels, snug an' tight;
Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right
Till ye've got on it,

The very tapmost tow'ring height
O' Miss's bonnet.

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump and gray as onie grozet;

O for some rank mercurial rozet,

Or fell red smeddum!

I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't,
Wad dress your droddum!

I wad na been surpris'd to spy
You on an auld wife's flannen toy;
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,
On's wyliecoat;

But Miss's fine Lunardi! fie,

How daur ye do't?

O Jenny, dinna toss your head,
An' set your beauties a' abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie's makin'!
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin'!

O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!

It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
And foolish notion:

What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,
And ev'n devotion!

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THE WHISTLE.

I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth,

I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North,
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king,
And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring.

Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal,

The god of the bottle sends down from his hall—
'This Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er,
And drink them to hell, Sir, or ne'er see me more!'

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,
What champions ventur'd, what champions fell;
The son of great Loda was conqueror still,
And blew on the Whistle their requiem shrill.

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war,
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea;
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he.

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain’'d,
Which now in his house has for ages remain’d ;
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,
The jovial contest again have renew'd;

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw-
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law,
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins,
And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.

Criagdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil;

Or else he would muster the heads of the clan,
And once more, in claret, try which was the man.

By the gods of the ancients!' Glenriddel replies,
Before I surrender so glorious a prize,

I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,
nd bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er.'

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Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend,

But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe-or his friend; Said Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field,'

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And knee-deep in claret, he'd die ere he'd yield.

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,

So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;

But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame, Than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely dame. 40

A bard was selected to witness the fray,
And tell future ages the feats of the day;
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen,
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been.

The dinner being over, the claret they ply,
And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy;

In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set,
And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet.

Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er;
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core,
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn,
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn.

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night,
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red,
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor did.

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage,
No longer the warfare ungodly would wage ;
A high-ruling elder to wallow in wine!

He left the foul business to folks less divine.

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end;
But who can with Fate and quart bumpers contend?
Though fate said, a hero should perish in light;

So up rose bright Phoebus-and down fell the knight.

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Next up rose our bard. like a prophet in drink :
'Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink!
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme,
Come-one bottle more-and have at the sublime !

"Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce, Shall heroes and patriots ever produce:

So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay!

The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!'

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THE KIRK'S ALARM.

ORTHODOX, Orthodox, wha believe in John Knox,
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience:
There's a heretic blast has been blawn i' the wast,
'That what is not sense must be nonsense.'

Dr. Mac, Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack,
To strike evil-doers wi' terror;

To join faith and sense upon ony pretence,
Is heretic, damnable error.

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare,
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing;

Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief,
And orator Bob is its ruin.

D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a child.
And your life like the new driven snaw,

Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye,
For preaching that three's ane and twa.

Rumble John, Rumble John, mount the steps wi' a groan,
Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd;

Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstane like adle,
And roar ev'ry note of the damn'd.

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Simper James, Simper James, leave the fair Killie dames,
There's a holier chase in your view;

I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon lead,
For puppies like you there's but few.

Singet Sawney, Singet Sawney, are ye herding the penny,
Unconscious what evils await?

Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul,
For the foul thief is just at your gate.

Daddy Auld, Daddy Auld, there's a tod in the fauld,
A tod meikle waur than the clerk;

Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the death,
And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.

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Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye do muster, The corps is no nice of recruits:

Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might boast, If the ass was the king of the brutes.

Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose, ye hae made but toom roose, In hunting the wicked Lieutenant;

But the Doctor's your mark, for the Lord's haly ark, He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrang pin in 't.

Poet Willie, Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley,
Wi' your 'liberty's chain' and your wit;

O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid a stride,

Ye but smelt, man, the place where he shit.

Andro Gouk, Andro Gouk, ye may slander the book,
And the book no the waur, let me tell ye!

Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and wig,
And ye'll hae a calf's head o'sma' value.

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Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, what mean ye? what mean ye?
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter.

Ye may hae some pretence to havins and sense,
Wi' people wha ken ye nae better.

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