Observe the very nowt an’ sheep,
     How dowff an’ daviely they creep;
     Nay, even the yirth itsel’ does cry,
     For E’nburgh wells are grutten dry.

     O Eighty-nine, thou’s but a bairn,
     An’ no owre auld, I hope, to learn! 
     Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care,
     Thou now hast got thy Daddy’s chair;
     Nae handcuff’d, mizl’d, hap-shackl’d Regent,
     But, like himsel, a full free agent,
     Be sure ye follow out the plan
     Nae waur than he did, honest man! 
     As muckle better as you can.

     January, 1, 1789.

The Henpecked Husband

     Curs’d be the man, the poorest wretch in life,
     The crouching vassal to a tyrant wife! 
     Who has no will but by her high permission,
     Who has not sixpence but in her possession;
     Who must to he, his dear friend’s secrets tell,
     Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. 
     Were such the wife had fallen to my part,
     I’d break her spirit or I’d break her heart;
     I’d charm her with the magic of a switch,
     I’d kiss her maids, and kick the perverse bitch.

Versicles On Sign-Posts

     His face with smile eternal drest,
     Just like the Landlord’s to his Guest’s,
     High as they hang with creaking din,
     To index out the Country Inn. 
     He looked just as your sign-post Lions do,
     With aspect fierce, and quite as harmless too.

     A head, pure, sinless quite of brain and soul,
     The very image of a barber’s Poll;
     It shews a human face, and wears a wig,
     And looks, when well preserv’d, amazing big.

1789

Robin Shure In Hairst

     Chorus.—­Robin shure in hairst,
     I shure wi’ him. 
     Fient a heuk had I,
     Yet I stack by him.

     I gaed up to Dunse,
     To warp a wab o’ plaiden,
     At his daddie’s yett,
     Wha met me but Robin: 
     Robin shure, &c.

     Was na Robin bauld,
     Tho’ I was a cotter,
     Play’d me sic a trick,
     An’ me the El’er’s dochter! 
     Robin shure, &c.

     Robin promis’d me
     A’ my winter vittle;
     Fient haet he had but three
     Guse-feathers and a whittle! 
     Robin shure, &c.

Ode, Sacred To The Memory Of Mrs. Oswald Of Auchencruive

     Dweller in yon dungeon dark,
     Hangman of creation! mark,
     Who in widow-weeds appears,
     Laden with unhonour’d years,
     Noosing with care a bursting purse,
     Baited with many a deadly curse?

     Strophe