The end

of the party

Whiles glitter'd to the nightly rays,
Wi' bickerin, dancin dazzle;
Whiles cookit underneath the braes,
Below the spreading hazel
Unseen that night.

Amang the brachens, on the brae,
Between her an' the moon,
The deil, or else an outler quey,
Gat up, an' gae a croon :

Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool;
Near lav'rock-height she jumpit,
But mist a fit, an' in the pool
Out-owre the lugs she plumpit,
Wi' a plunge that night.

In order, on the clean hearth-stane,
The luggies three are ranged;
An' ev'ry time great care is ta'en
To see them duly changed:
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys
Sin' Mar's-year did desire,
Because he gat the toom dish thrice,
He heav'd them on the fire,

In wrath that night.

Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks,
I wat they did na weary;
And unco tales, an' funnie jokes-
Their sports were cheap an' cheery:
Till butter'd sowens, wi' fragrant lunt,
Set a' their gabs a-steerin;
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt,

They parted aff careerin

Fu' blythe that night.

TO A MOUSE

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE

PLOUGH, NOVEMBER 1785

WEE, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,

Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,

Which makes thee startle

At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request;

I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,

An' never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,

O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin,

Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,

An' weary winter comin fast,

The

mouse made homeless

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary

nibble!

Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,

An' cranreuch cauld!

But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain ;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,

An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me;
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e,

On prospects drear!

An' forward, tho' I canna see,

I

guess an' fear!

ADAM ARMOUR'S PRAYER

GUDE pity me, because I'm little !

For though I am an elf o' mettle,

An' can, like ony

wabster's shuttle,

Jink there or here,

Yet, scarce as lang's a gude kail-whittle,

I'm unco queer.

An' now Thou kens our waefu' case;
For Geordie's jurr we're in disgrace,
Because we stang'd her through the place,
An' hurt her spleuchan;

For whilk we daurna show our face

Within the clachan.

An' now we're dern'd in dens and hollows,
And hunted, as was William Wallace,
Wi' constables-thae blackguard fallows,
An' sodgers baith;

But Gude preserve us frae the gallows,
That shamefu' death!

Auld grim black-bearded Geordie's sel'-
O shake him owre the mouth o' hell!
There let him hing, an' roar, an' yell
Wi' hideous din,

And if he offers to rebel,

Then heave him in.

When Death comes in wi' glimmerin blink,
An' tips auld drucken Nanse the wink,
May Sautan gie her doup a clink

Within his yett,

An' fill her up wi' brimstone drink,

Red-reekin het.

Though Jock an' hav'rel Jean are merry—
Some devil seize them in a hurry,

An' waft them in th' infernal wherry

Straught through the lake,

An' gie their hides a noble curry

Wi' oil of aik!

Adam
Armour's
Prayer

The Beggars' Festival

As for the jurr-puir worthless body!
She's got mischief enough already;
Wi' stangèd hips, and buttocks bluidy,
She's suffer'd sair;

But

may she wintle in a woody,

If she whore mair!

THE JOLLY BEGGARS.-A

CANTATA.

Recitativo.

WHEN lyart leaves bestrow the yird,
Or wavering like the bauckie-bird,
Bedim cauld Boreas' blast;
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte,
And infant frosts begin to bite,
In hoary cranreuch drest;
Ae night at e'en a merry core
O' randie, gangrel bodies,
In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore,
To drink their orra duddies;
Wi' quaffing an' laughing,
They ranted an' they sang,
Wi' jumping an' thumping,
The vera girdle rang,

First, neist the fire, in auld red rags,
Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags,
And knapsack a' in order;
His doxy lay within his arm;
Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm

She blinkit on her sodger;