Foreign rivals When skirling weanies see the light, Wae worth the name! Nae howdie gets a social night, Or plack frae them. When neibors anger at a plea, Cement the quarrel ! It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, To taste the barrel. Alake! that e'er my muse has reason, Wi' liquors nice, An' hardly, in a winter season, E'er spier her price. Wae worth that brandy, burnin trash! An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well! May gravels round his blather wrench, O' sour disdain, Out owre a glass o' whisky-punch O whisky! soul o' plays and pranks ! Thou comes they rattle in their ranks, Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, An' bake them up in brunstane pies For poor damn'd drinkers. Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still An' deal't about as thy blind skill The bard's inspira tion The old powers mare's THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEARMORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE, MAGGIE, On giving her the accustomed ripp of corn to hansel in A GUID New-year I wish thee, Maggie! Thou could hae I've seen the day Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff an' crazy, He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, It's now some nine-an'-twenty year, An' fifty mark; Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, An' thou was stark. When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, Ye ne'er was donsie ; But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble, For heels an' win'! An' ran them till they a' did wauble, When thou an' I were young an' skeigh How thou wad prance, in early days and snore, an' skreigh An' tak the road! Town's-bodies ran, an' stood abeigh, An' ca't thee mad. When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, For pith an' speed; But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, Whare'er thou gaed. Her speed and strength The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle O' saugh or hazel. Thou was a noble fittie-lan', As e'er in tug or tow was drawn! Aft thee an' I, in aught hours' gaun, In guid March-weather, Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', For days thegither. Thou never braing't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit; Till sprittie knowes wad rair't an' riskit An' slypet owre. When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, I gied thy cog a wee bit heap Aboon the timmer: I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep, For that, or simmer. In cart or car thou never reestit; The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it; Thou never lap, an' But just thy step a sten't, and breastit, Then stood to blaw; wee thing hastit, Thou snoov't awa. |