Behint me clinks the gowden yett; Wi' thochts o' hame that bizz red-het An' when I stap oot ower the cluds,- God! but my heart starts aff in thuds, Saftly I daunder up an' doon The mavis' sang, the cushie's croon, Yet Scotland's changed since first I kent it; The Gospel-faulds hae been augmentit; The hypocrites hae a' repentit, An' quat their quirks; The auld black creeds hae been white-pentit In a' the kirks! Nae mair frae pupits yerks a yell They've sell't the guid auld brunstane Hell, A land o' saunts it would appear! Whare a' men drap the mild saut tear Nae lad plays pliskie wi' a lass; The Lord kens hoo it comes to pass, An' as for Bards,-they're scarce as brose! An' Lun'on toon pays through the nose Guid faith! I ken na wha can fash Is nocht but haivers; An' yet the birkies, prood an' gash, Leeze me on tales o' deils an' drink; Ballant an' sang, hae taen a kink As for mysel', I'm saunt or hog For jaw an' nose is As like this common, rough phizog The critic-craws still bigg their hame An' a' his bits o' sin an' shame Deil roast sic craws an' a' their cawin'! Their blame is stale, their praise is stawin'; When Robin fell he mourned his faain',— Faith! if the truth maun be confest, Auld Scotland's guid, but Heaven is best; Guid fellows a' at crack the jest, Shakespeare, the king o' a' the core; Coleridge, whiles seraph,-whiles a bore, But Scott's the wale o' men for me, An' gleg James Hogg, wha thraws a wee An' Louis, blythe of late cam' he,-- Wi' siclike frien's Scotch saunts come sair; For after Heaven I canna bear Sic godly folk; Then fareweel! daylicht's in the air, An' there's the cock! HAMISH HENDRY. |