On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
Wi' screw'd up grace-proud faces;
On that a set o' chaps at watch,
Thrang winkin on the lasses,

To chairs that day.

O happy is that man an' blest!
Nae wonder that it pride him!
Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best,
Comes clinkin down beside him!
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back,
He sweetly does compose him;

Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,
An's loof upon her bosom

Unkend that day.

Now a' the congregation o'er
Is silent expectation;

For ****** speels the holy door,
Wi' tidings o' d-mn-t—n.
Should Hornie, as in ancient days,
'Mang sons o' G― present him,
The vera sight o' *****'s face,
To's ain het hame had sent him

Wi' fright that day.

Hear how he clears the points o'faith
Wi' rattlin an' thumpin!

Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,
He's stampin an' he's jumpin!
His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout,
His eldritch squeel and gestures,
O how they fire the heart devout,
Like cantharidian plasters,

On sic a day!

But hark! the tent has chang'd its voice; There's peace an' rest nae langer :

For a' the real judges rise,

They canna sit for anger.

***** opens out his cauld harangues
On practice and on morals;
An' aff the godly pour in thrangs,
To gie the jars an' barrels

A lift that day.

What signifies his barren shine,
Of moral pow'rs and reason?
His English style an' gesture fine,
Are a' clean out o' season.
ike Socrates or Antonine,
Or some auld pagan heathen,
The moral man he does define,
But ne'er a word o' faith in

That's right that day.

In guid time comes an antidote
Against sic poison'd nostrum ;
For *******, frae the water-fit,
Ascends the holy rostrum ;
Sce, up he's got the word o’G—
An' meek an' mim has view'd it,
While Common Sense has ta'en the road,
An' aff, an' up the Cowgate,*

Fast, fast, that day!

Wee *****, niets, the guard relieves

An' Orthodoxy raibles,

Tho' in his heart he weel believes,

An' thinks it auld wives' fables: But, faith the birkie wants a manse, So, cannily he hums them;

Altho' his carnal wit an' sense

Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him

At times that day.

Now butt an' ben, the Change-house fills
Wi' yill-caup commentators:

Here's crying out for bakes and gills,
An' there the pint stowp clatters;
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang,
Wi' logic, an' wi' scripture,

They raise a din, that, in the end,

Is like to breed a rupture

O' wrath that day.

Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair
Than either school or college:

• A street so called which faces the tent in

It kindles wit, it waukens lair,
It pangs us fou o' knowledge.
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep,
Or ony stronger potion,

It never fails, on drinking deep,
To kittle up our notion

By night or day.

The lads an' lasses, blythely bent,
To mind baith soul an' body,
Sit round the table, weel content,
An' steer about the toddy.

On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk
They're making observations;
While some are cozie i' the neuk,
An' formin assignations

To meet some day.

But now the L-d's ain trumpet touts,
Till a' the hills are rairin,

An' echoes back return the shouts :
Black ****** is na spairin;

His piercing words, like highlan swords,
Divide the joints and marrow;

His talk o' h-Il, where devils dwell,
Our vera sauls does harrow*

Wi' fright that day.

A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit,
Fill'd fou o' lowin brunstane,
Wha's ragin flame. an' scorchin heat,
Wad melt the hardest whun stane!
The half asleep start up wi' fear,
An' think they hear it roarin,
When presently it does appear,
"Twas but some neebor snorin

Asleep that day.

'Twad be owre lang a tale, to tell
How monie stories past,

An' how they crouded to the yill,
When they were a' dismist :

Shakespeare's Hamlet.

How drink gaed round, in cogs and caups, Amang the furms an' benches;

An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, Was dealt about in bunches,

An' dawds that day.

In comes a gaucie gash guidwife,

An' sits down by the fire,

Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife,
The lasses they are shyer.

The auld guidmen, about the grace,
Frae side to side they bother,
Till some ane by his bonnet lays,
An' gi'es them't like a tether,

Fu' lang that day.

Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,
Or lasses that hae naething!

Sma' need has he to say a grace,
Or melvie his braw claithing!
O wives, be mindfu, ance yoursel,
How bonnie lads ye wanted,
An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel,
Let lasses be affronted

On sic a day!

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin tow,

Begins to jow an' croon;

Some swagger home, the best they dow,
Some wait the afternoon.

At slaps the billies balt a blink,

Till lasses strip their shoon:

Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink,
They're a' in famous tune,

For crack that day.

How monie hearts this day converts

O' sinners and o' lasses!

Their hearts o' stane gîn night are gane,
As soft as ony flesh is.

There's some are fou o' love divine;

There's some are fou o' brandy;

An' monie jobs that day begin,

May end in houghmangandie

Some ither day.

DEATH AND DŔ. HORNBROOK.

A TRUE STORY.

SOME books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lines were never penn❜d:
Ev'n ministers that hae been kenn'd,

In holy rapture,

A rousing whid, at times, to vend,

And nail't wi' scripture.

But this that I am gaun to tell,
Which lately on a night befel,
Is just as true's the deil's in h-ll

Or Dublin city:

That e'er he nearer comes oursel

'S a muckle pity.

The clachan yill had made me canty,
1 was nae fou, but just had plenty;
I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay

To free the ditches;

An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd ay

Frae ghaists an' witches.

The rising moon began to glowr
The distant' Cumnock hills out-owre:
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r,
I set mysel;.

But whether she had three or four,

I could na tell.

I was come round about the hill,
And todlin down on Willie's mill,
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill,

To keep me sicker;
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will,
I took a bicker.

I there wi' something did forgather,
That put me in an eerie swither;

An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther,

Clear-dangling, hang;

A three-tae'd leister on the ither

Lay, large an' lang.