Hurl frae the town in hackney chaises, For country cheer:

The powny that in spring-time grazes, Thrives a' the year.

Ye lawyers, bid fareweel to lies,
Fareweel to din, fareweel to fees,
The canny hours o' rest may please
Instead o' siller:

Hain'd multer hads the mill at ease,
And finds the miller.

Blyth they may be wha wanton play
In fortune's bonny blinkin ray,
Fu' weel can they ding dool away

Wi' comrades couthy,

And never dree a hungert day,

Or e'ening drouthy.

Ohon the day for him that's laid,
In dowie poortith's caldrife shade,
Ablins o'er honest for his trade,

He racks his wits,

How he may get his buik weel clad,
And fill his guts.

The farmers' sons, as yap as sparrows,
Are glad, I trow, to flee the barras,
And whistle to the plough and harrows
At barley seed:

What writer wadna gang as far as

He cou'd for bread.

After their yokin, I wat weel

They'll stoo the kebbuck to the heel;

This vacance is a heavy doom
On Indian Peter's coffee-room,1
For a' his china pigs are toom;
Nor do we see

In wine the sucker biskets soom
As light's a flee.

But stop, my Muse, nor make a main,
Pate disna fend on that alane;1

He can fell twa dogs wi' ae bane,

While ither fock

Ye change-house keepers never grumble,
Tho' you a while your bickers whumble,
Be unco patientfu' and humble,

Nor mak' a din,

Tho' gude joot binna kend to rumble
Your weym within.

You needna grudge to draw your breath
For little mair than half a reath,2

1 Peter Williamson, who, like Robin Gibb, kept a small tavern in the Outer House. He was one of the notabilities of Edinburgh, having been kidnapped in his boyhood from Aberdeen, and sold to a planter in the American colonies. He lived for several years among the Indians, whose dresses and customs he afterwards exhibited before the citizens of Edinburgh. Most truly does Fergusson say, "Pate disna fend on that alane." In addition to his tavern he was a pre-Rowland Hill, having established a penny post in the capital; and published a Street Directory. Moreover, we have seen his imprint on an edition of Sir David Lindsay's Poems, and have in our possession a quaint advertisement of 'Porter, etc., etc.' There is a portrait of him in Kay in conversation with Bruce, the Abyssinian traveller. No. LIX. Vol. I. Pt. I. p. 128 sq. 2 Reath 'is a public-house (tavern) measure for liquors-used perhaps only in the taverns then immediately adjoining Parliament Square. I do not know the size of the measure, but from the (above) context, it must be a small one. Long disused, and not given in Jamieson.-Com

Than, gin we a' be spar'd frae death,
We'll gladly prie

Fresh noggans o' your reaming graith
Wi' blythsome glee.

X

THE SITTING OF THE SESSION.

PHEBUS, Sair cow'd wi' simmer's hight, 1
Cours near the yird wi' blinking light;
Cauld shaw the haughs, nae mair bedight
Wi' simmer's claes,

They heeze the heart o' dowy wight
That thro' them gaes.

Weel lo'es me o' you, business, now;
For ye'll weet mony a drouthy mou’,
That's lang a eisning gane for you,
Withouten fill

O' dribbles frae the gude brown cow,
Or Highland gill.

The Court o' Session, weel wat I,
Pitts ilk chiel's whittle i' the pye,

Can criesh the slaw-gaun wheels whan dry,
Till Session's done,

Tho' they'll gie mony a cheep and cry

Or twalt o' June.

municated by Mr. Robert Burns, Secundus. [It is transferred by Fergusson to time: you need not "grudge so short a period."]

1 The winter 'session' was then (1773) opened on the 12th of November. The Last Sitting of the Old Court of Session' is the subject of one of Kay's curious etchings. (No. CXXX.)