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Weels me o' drink, quo cooper Will,
My barrel has been geyz'd ay,
And has na gotten sic a fill,

Sin fou on Hansel-Teysday:
But maks na; now it's got a sweel ;
Ae gird I shanna cast, lad!
Or, else, I wish the horned deil
May Will wi' kittle cast dad
To hell the day!

The magistrates fu' wylie are;
Their lamps are gayly blinkin';
But they might as lieve burn elsewhere,
Whan fouk's blind-fou' wi drinkin.

Our Deacon wadna ca' a chair;

The foul ane durst him na-say!

He took shanks-naig; but, fient may care! He arslins kiss'd the cawsey

Wi' bir that night.

Weel loes me o' you, souter Jock!
For tricks ye buit be tryin':
Whan grapin for his ain bed-stock,
He fa's whare Will's wife's lyin,
Will, comin hame wi' ither fouk,
He saw Jock there before him;
Wi' maister laiglen, like a brock,
He did wi' stink maist smore him,
Fu' strang that night.

Then wi' a souple leathern whang He gart them fidge and girn ay :"Faith, chiel! ye's no for naething gang, "Gin ye maun reel my pirny." Syne, wi' a muckle elshin lang He brogit Maggie's hurdies;

And 'cause he thought her i' the wrang, There pass'd nae bonny wordies

"Tween them that night.

Now, had some laird his lady fand
In sic unseemly courses,

It might hae lows'd the haly band,
Wi' law-suits and divorces:

But the niest day, they a' shook hands,
And ilka crack did sowder,

While Meg for drink her apron pawns,
For a' the gudeman cow'd her
Whan fu' last night.

Glowr round the cawsey, up and down, What mobbing and what plotting! Here politicians bribe a lown

Against his saul for voting.

The gowd that inlakes half a crown

Thir blades lug out to try them,

They pouch the gowd, nor fash the town

For weights and scales to weigh them

Exact that day.

Then Deacons at the counsel stent
To get themsel's presentit :
For towmonths twa their saul is lent,
For the town's gude indentit :
Lang's their debating thereanent,
About protests they're bauthrin ;
While Sandy Fife, to mak content,
On bells plays, Clout the Caudron,"
To them that day.

Ye lowns that troke in doctor's stuff,
You'll now hae unco slaisters;
Whan windy blaws their stamacks puff,
They'll need baith pills and plaisters:
For tho' e'en-now they look right bluff,
Sic drinks, ere hillocks meet,
Will hap some deacons in a truf,
Inrow'd i' the lang leet

O' death yon night.

TO THE TRON-KIRK BELL.

WANWORDY, crazy, dinsome thing,
As e'er was fram'd to jow or ring,
What gar'd them sic in steeple hing
They ken themsel',

But weel wat I they cou'dna bring
Waur sounds frae hell.

What deil are ye? that I shou'd bann,
Your neither kin to pat nor pan,

Nor ulzie pig, nor maister cann,

But weel may gie

Mair pleasure to the ear o' man

Than stroke o' thee.

Fleece merchants may look bauld, I trow,

Sin' a' Auld Reikie's childer now

Maun stap their lugs wi' teats o' woo,

Thy sound to bang,

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Your noisy tongue, there's nae abidin't,
Like scaulding wife's, there is nae guidin't:
Whan I'm 'bout ony bis'ness eident,
Its sair to thole:

To deave me, then, ye tak a pride in't

Wi' senseless knoll.

O! were I provost o' the town,
I swear by a' the pow'rs aboon!

I'd bring ye wi' a reesle down;

Nor shou'd

you think

(Sae sair I'd crack and clour your crown) Again to clink,

For whan I've toom'd the meikle

cap,

And fain wad fa' owre in a nap,
Troth I cou'd dose as soun's a tap,
Wer't na for thee,

That gies the tither weary chap

To waken me.

I dreamt ae night I saw Auld Nick ; Quo' he, "This bell o' mine's a trick, "A wylie piece o' politic,

* · A cunnin snare

"To trap fouk in a cloven stick,

"Ere they're aware.

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