They drink the sweet, and eat the fat.
But care or pain;

And haply eye the barren hut
With high disdain.

With steady aim, some Fortune chase;
Keen Hope does ev'ry sinew brace;
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race,
And seize the prey;

Then canie, in some cozie place,

They close the day.

And others, like your humble servan',
Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin;
To right or left eternal swervin,

They zig-zag on;

Till curst with age, obscure an' starvin,
They aften groan.

Alas! what bitter toil an' straining

But, truce with peevish, poor complaining!
Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning?
E'en let her gang!

Beneath what light she has remaining,

Let's sing our sang.

My pen I here fling to the door,

And kneel, "Ye Powers!" and warm implore, "Tho' I should wander Terra o'er,

In all her climes,

Grant me but this, I ask no more,
Ay rowth o' rhymes.

"Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds

Till icicles hing frae their beards

Gie fine braw claes to fine Life-Guards,
And Maids o' Honor;

And yill an' whiskey gie to Cairds,
Until they sconner.

"A title, Dempster merits it;
A garter gie to Willie Pitt;
Gie wealth to some beleger'd cit,
In cent. per cent.;

But gie me real, sterling wit,

And I'm content.

"While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale,
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal,
Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail,
Wi' cheerfu' face.

As lang's the Muses dinna fail
To say the grace."

An anxious e'e I never throws
Behint my lug, or by my nose;
I jouk beneath Misfortune's blows
As weel's I may;

Sworn foe to Sorrow, Care, and Prose,
I rhyme away.

O ye douce folk, that live by rule, Grave, tideless-bloody, calm, and cool, Compar'd wi' you - O fool! fool! fool'

How much unlike!

Your hearts are just a standing pool;
Your lives, a dyke!

Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces
In your unletter'd nameless faces,

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise;
Nae ferly tho' ye do despise

The hairum scairum, ram-stam boys,
The rattlin squad:

I see you upward cast your eyes
Ye ken the road.

Whilst I but I shall haud me there

Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where;
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair,
But quat my sang,

Content wi' you to mak a pair,
Whare'er I gang.

WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw,

And hing us owre the ingle,

I sit me down to pass the time,
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,

In hamely westlin jingle.

⚫ David Sillar, one of the Club at Tarbolton, and author of a volume of Poems in the Scottish dialect.

While frosty winds blaw in the drift,
Ben to the chimla lug,

I grudge a wee the great folks' gift,
That live sae bien and snug:

I tent less, and want less,
Their roomy fire-side;

But hanker and canker,

To see their cursed pride.

It's hardly in a body's pow'r
To keep at times frae being sour
To see how things are shar'd;
How best o'chiels are whiles in want,
While coofs on countless thousands rant,
And ken na how to wair't:

But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head,
Tho' we hae little gear,

We're fit to win our daily bread,

As lang's were hale and fier;

"Mair spier na, no fear na,"

Auld age ne'er mind a feg,
The last o't, the warst o't,

Is only for to beg.

III.

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en,

When banes are craz'd and bluid is thin, Is, doubtless, great distress!

Yet then content could make us blest; Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste Of truest happiness.

The honest heart that's free frae a'

* Ramsay

Intended fraud or guile,
However Fortune kick the ba',
Has ay some cause to smile;
And mind still, you'll find still,
A comfort this nae sma';
Nae mair then, we'll care then,
Nae farther can we fa'.

IV.

What tho', like commoners of air,
We wander out we know not where,

But either house or hal'!

Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods,
The sweeping vales and foaming floods,
Are free alike to all.

In days when daisies deck the ground,
And blackbirds whistle clear,
With honest joy our hearts will bound,
To see the coming year:

On braes when we please, then,
We'll sit an' sowth a tune;
Syne rhyme til't, we'll time till❜t,
And sing't when we hae done.

V.

It's no in titles nor in rank,

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank,

To purchase peace and rest;

It's no in makin muckle mair,
It's no in books, it's no in lear,
To make us truly blest;
If happiness hae not her seat
And centre in the breast,

We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest: