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And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John, *
For monie a day.
XII. For you, right rev’rend 0
Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, Although a ribban at your lug
Wad been a dress completer : As ye disown yon paughty dog
That bears the keys of Peter, Then, swith! an' get a wife to hug, Or, trouth! ye'll stain the mitre
Some luckless day.
Ye've lately come athwart her;
Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter ;
Your hymeneal charter,
Come full that day.
Ye royal lasses dainty,
An' gie you lads a-plenty :
• Sir John Fallstaff: vide Shakspeare.
† Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain royal sailor's amour.
But sneer nae British boys awa',
For kings are unco scant ay ;
One onie day.
Ye're unco muckle dautet;
It may be bitter sautet:
That yet hae tarrow't at it;
Fu' clean that day.
The sun had clos'd the winter day,
To kail-yards green,
Whare she has been.
The thresher's weary flingin-tree The lee-lang day had tired me ;
** Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisions of a dia gressive poem. See his Cath-Loda, vol. ii. of M'Pherson's trans. lation.
And whan the day had clos'd his e'e,
Far i' the west, Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie,
I gaed to rest.
There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek,
The auld clay biggin ; An' heard the restless rattons squeak
About the riggin.
All in this mottie, misty clime,
An' done naething,
For fools to sing.
Had I to guid advice but harkit, I might, by this, hae led a market, Or strutted in a bank an' clarkit
My cash account: While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit,
Is a' th’amount.
I started, mutt'ring, blockhead ! coof!
Or some rash aith,
Till my last breath
When click! the string the snick did draw; And jee! the door gaed to the wa';
An' by my ingle-lowe I saw,
Now bleezin bright, A tight, outlandish Hizzie, braw,
Come full in sight.
Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht; The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht; I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht
In some wild glen ; When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht,
And stepped ben.
Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs Were twisted, gracefu' round her brows; I took her for some Scottish Muse,
By that same token; An' come to stop those reckless vows,
Wou'd soon been broken.
A hair-brain'd, sentimental trace,'
Shone full upon her;
Beam'd keen with honour.
Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen;
Could only peer it;
Nane else came near it.
Her mantle large, of greenish hue,
A lustre grand ;
A well known land.
Here, rivers in the sea were lost; There, mountains to the skies were tost : Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast,
With surging foam ; There, distant shone Art's lofty boast,
The lordly dome.
Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods; There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds : Auld hermit Ayr staw throʻ his woods,
On to the shore ; And many a lesser torrent scuds,
With seeming roar.
Low, in a sandy valley spread,
She boasts a race,
And polish'd grace.
By stately tow'r or palace fair,
I could discern ;
With feature stern,