A donnart chiel, whan drunk, may dreep
Fu' sleely in,

But finds the gate baith stey and steep,
Ere out he win.

THE RISING OF THE SESSION.

To a' men livin be it kend,

The Session now is at an end:
Writers, your finger nebs unbend,

And quat the pen,

Till Time, wi' lyart pow, shall send
Blithe June again.

Tir'd o' the law, and a' its phrases, The wylie writers, rich as Cræsus, 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 mu'ter hauds the mill at easë,
And fends the miller.

Blithe may they 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'enin drouthy.

Ohon the day! for him that's laid
In dowie Poortith's cauldrife shade;
Aiblins owre 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 pleugh 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;

Eith can the pleugh-stilts gar a chiel Be unco vogie,

Clean to lick aff his crowdie-meal,

And scart his cogie.

Now mony a fallow's dung adrift
To a' the blasts beneath the lift;
And tho' their stamack's aft in tift,
In vacance time,

Yet seenil do they ken the rift
O' stappit wame.

Now, gin a notar shou'd be wanted, You'll find the pillars gayly planted: For little thing protests are granted

Upo' a bill,

And weightiest matters covenanted For half a gill.

Naebody taks a mornin drib

O' Holland gin frae Robin Gibb ;

And, tho' a dram to Rob's mair sib,

Than is his wife,

He maun tak time to daut his rib,

Till siller's rife.

This vacance is a heavy doom
On Indian Peter's coffee-room;

For a' his china pigs are toom;

Nor do we see

In wine the soucker biskets soum,

As light's a flee.

But stop, my Muse! nor mak a mane ; Pate does na fend on that alane

He can fell twa dogs wi' ae bane,

While ither fouk

Maun rest themsels content wi' ane,

Nor farer trock.

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

Nor mak a din,

Tho' good joot binna kend to rumble
Your wame within.

You needna grudge to draw your

breath

For little mair than half a reath;
Then, gin we a' be spar'd frae death,

Fresh noggans o'

We'll gladly prie

your reamin graith
Wi' blithesome glee.

LEITH RACES.

In July month, ae bonny morn
Whan Nature's rokelay green
Was spread owre ilka rig o' corn,
To charm our rovin een ;
Glowrin about, I saw a quean,
The fairest 'neath the lift:

Her een were o' the siller sheen;
Her skin, like snawy drift,
Sae white that day.

Quo' she, "I ferly unco sair, "That ye sud musin gae ; "Ye wha hae sung o' Hallow-fair, "Her Winter's pranks, and play ; " Whan on Leith-sands the racers rare "Wi' Jocky louns are met,

"Their orra pennies there to ware,

66 And drown themsels in debt

Fu' deep that day."