Ye benders a', that dwall in joot,
You'll tak your liquor clean cap out,
Synd your mouse-wabbs wi' reaming stout,
While ye ha'e cash,
And gar your cares a' tak the rout,
Rob Gibb's grey gizz, new frizzl'd fine,
Will white as ony snaw-ba' shine;
Weel does he lo'e the lawen coin
Whan dossied down,
For whisky gills or dribbs of wine
In cauld forenoon.
Bar-keepers now, at outer door,2
Tak tent as fock gang back and fore :
The fient ane there but pays his score,
Nane wins toll-free,
Tho' ye've a cause the house before,
Or agent be.
Gin ony here wi' canker knocks,
And has na lous'd his siller pocks,
Ye need na think to fleetch or cox;
"Come, shaw's your gear; "Ae scabbit yew spills twenty flocks, "Ye's no be here."
Now at the door they'll raise a plea;
Crack on, my lads!-for flyting's free
For gin ye shou'd tongue-tacket be,
The mair's the pity,
Whan scalding but and ben we see
The lawyer's skelfs, and printer's presses,
Grain unco sair wi' weighty cases;
The clark in toil his pleasure places,
To thrive bedeen;
At five-hour's bell scribes shaw their faces,
And rake their ein.
The country fock to lawyers crook,
"Ah! Weels me on your bonny buik!
"The benmost part o' my kist nook
"I'll ripe for thee,
"And willing ware my hindmost rook
"For my decree."
But Law's a draw-well unco deep,
Withouten rim fock out to keep;
A donnart chiel, whan drunk, may dreep
Fu' sleely in,
But finds the gate baith stay and steep,
Ere out he win.
HERDS, blythsome tune your canty reeds,
An' welcome to the gowany meads
The pride o' a' the insect thrang,
A stranger to the green sae lang,
Unfald ilk buss and ilka brier,
The bounties o' the gleesome year,
To him whase voice delights the spring,
Whase soughs the saftest slumbers bring.
The trees in simmer-cleething drest,
The hillocks in their greenest vest.
The brawest flow'rs rejoic'd we see,
Disclose their sweets, and ca' on thee,
Blythly to skim on wanton wing
Thro' a' the fairy haunts of spring.
Whan fields ha'e got their dewy gift,
And dawnin breaks upo' the lift,
Then gang ye're wa's thro' hight and how,
Seek cauler haugh or sunny know,
Or ivy'd craig or burnbank brae,
Whare industry shall bid ye gae,
For hiney or for waxen store,
To ding sad poortith frae your door.
Cou'd feckless creature, man, be wise,
The simmer o' his life to prize,
In winter he might fend fu' bald,
His eild unkend to nippin cald,
Yet thir, alas! are antrin fock
That lade their scape wi' winter stock.
Auld age maist feckly glowrs right dour
Upo' the ailings of the poor,
Wha hope for nae comforting, save
That dowie dismal house, the grave.
Then feeble man, be wise, take tent
How industry can fetch content,
Behad the bees whare'er they wing,
Or thro' the bonny bow'rs of spring,
Whare vi'lets or whare roses blaw,
And siller dew-draps nightly fa',
Or whan on open bent they're seen,
On heather-bell or thristle green;
The hiney's still as sweet that flows
Frae thristle cald or kendling rose.
Frae this the human race may learn
Reflection's hiney'd draps to earn,
Whan Thrasher John, sair dung, his barn-door steeks,
And lusty lasses at the dighting tire:
What bangs fu' leal the e'enings coming cauld,
And gars snaw-tapit winter freeze in vain :
Gars dowie mortals look baith blyth and bauld,
Nor fley'd wi' a' the poortith o' the plain;
Begin my Muse, and chant in hamely strain.
Frae the big stack, weel winnow't on the hill,
Wi' divets theekit frae the weet and drift,
Sods, peats, and heath'ry trufs the chimley fill,
And gar their thick'ning smeek salute the lift;
The gudeman, new come hame, is blyth to find,
Whan he out o'er the halland flings his een,
That ilka turn is handled to his mind,
That a' his housie looks sae cosh and clean;
For cleanly house looes he, tho' e'er sae mean.
Weel kens the gudewife that the pleughs require
A heartsome meltith, and refreshing synd
November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;
The short'ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose;
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,
This night his weekly moil is at an end,
Collects his spades, his mattocks and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And, weary, o'er the moor his course does hameward bend.
With reference to the word 'gloming' or 'gloamin,' it is certainly a very picturesque and mellifluous one. Byron appends an interesting note concerning it, to his 'Elegy on Newstead Abbey,' into which he had thus introduced it,
Where now the bats their wavering wings extend
Soon as the gloaming spreads her waning shade.
"As 'gloaming,' the Scottish word for twilight," says he, "is far more poetical and has been recommended by many eminent literary men, particularly by Dr. Moore in his letters to Burns, I have ventured to use it on account of its harmony."
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