As

The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,

great an' gracious a' as fifters ;

But hear their abfent thoughts o' ither,
They're a run deils an' jads thegither.
Whyles, owre the wee bit
cup an' platie,

They fip the scandal-potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbet leuks,
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks;
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard,
An' cheat like ony unbang'd blackguard.

There's fome exceptions, man an' woman; But this is Gentry's life in common.

By this, the fun was out o' sight,
An' darker gloamin brought the night:
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone,
The kye ftood rowtan i' the loan;
When up they gat an' shook their lugs,
Rejoic'd they were na men but dogs;
An' each took off his feveral way,
Refolv'd to meet fome ither day.

味◎味味©味!

SCOTCH DRINK.

Gie him ftrong Drink until he wink,

That's finking in defpair;

An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,
That's preft wi' grief an' care:
There let him bowfe an' deep caroufe,
Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,
Till be forgets his loves or debts,

An' minds his griefs no more.

SOLOMON'S PROVERBS, xxxi. 6, 7

L

ET other Poets raise a fracas

'Bout vines, an' wines, an' druken

Bacchus,

An' crabbed names an' ftories wrack us,

An' grate our lug,

I fing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,

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 lifp an' wink,

To fing thy name!

Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn, And Aits fet up their awnie horn,

An' Pease an' Beans, at een or morn,

Perfume the plain,

Leeze me on thee John Barleycorn,

Thou king o' grain!

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,

In fouple fcones, the wale o' food!

Or tumbling in the boiling flood

Wi' kail an' beef;

But when thou pours thy ftrong heart's blood,

There thou fhines chief.

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 chears the heart o' drooping Care; Thou ftrings the nerves o' Labor-fair,

At's weary toil;

Thou ev'n brightens dark Despair,

Wi' gloomy fmile.

Aft, clad in maffy, filler weed, Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head;

Yet humbly kind, in time o' need,

The poor man's wine;

His wee drap pirratch, 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 faunts,

By thee infpir'd,

When gaping they befiege the tents,

Are doubly fir'd.

That merry night we get the corn in, O fweetly, then, thou reams the horn in! Or reekan on a New-year-mornin

In cog or bicker,

An' just a wee drap spritual burn in,

An' gusty fucker!

When Vulcan gies his bellys breath, An' Ploughmen gather wi' their graith,

O rare! to see thee fizz an' freath

I' the lugget caup!

Then Burnewin comes on like Death

At ev'ry chap.

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

The strong forehammer,

Till block an' ftuddie ring an' reel

Wi' dinfome clamour.

C