My honor’d Colonel, deep I feel
     Your interest in the Poet’s weal;
     Ah! now sma’ heart hae I to speel
     The steep Parnassus,
     Surrounded thus by bolus pill,
     And potion glasses.

     O what a canty world were it,
     Would pain and care and sickness spare it;
     And Fortune favour worth and merit
     As they deserve;
     And aye rowth o’ roast-beef and claret,
     Syne, wha wad starve?

     Dame Life, tho’ fiction out may trick her,
     And in paste gems and frippery deck her;
     Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker
     I’ve found her still,
     Aye wavering like the willow-wicker,
     ’Tween good and ill.

     Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
     Watches like baudrons by a ratton
     Our sinfu’ saul to get a claut on,
     Wi’felon ire;
     Syne, whip! his tail ye’ll ne’er cast saut on,
     He’s aff like fire.

     Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair,
     First showing us the tempting ware,
     Bright wines, and bonie lasses rare,
     To put us daft
     Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare
     O hell’s damned waft.

     Poor Man, the flie, aft bizzes by,
     And aft, as chance he comes thee nigh,
     Thy damn’d auld elbow yeuks wi’joy
     And hellish pleasure! 
     Already in thy fancy’s eye,
     Thy sicker treasure.

     Soon, heels o’er gowdie, in he gangs,
     And, like a sheep-head on a tangs,
     Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs,
     And murdering wrestle,
     As, dangling in the wind, he hangs,
     A gibbet’s tassel.

     But lest you think I am uncivil
     To plague you with this draunting drivel,
     Abjuring a’ intentions evil,
     I quat my pen,
     The Lord preserve us frae the devil! 
     Amen!  Amen!

A Lass Wi’ A Tocher

     Tune—­“Ballinamona Ora.”

     Awa’ wi’ your witchcraft o’ Beauty’s alarms,
     The slender bit Beauty you grasp in your arms,
     O, gie me the lass that has acres o’ charms,
     O, gie me the lass wi’ the weel-stockit farms.

     Chorus—­Then hey, for a lass wi’ a tocher,
     Then hey, for a lass wi’ a tocher;
     Then hey, for a lass wi’ a tocher;
     The nice yellow guineas for me.

     Your Beauty’s a flower in the morning that blows,
     And withers the faster, the faster it grows: 
     But the rapturous charm o’ the bonie green knowes,
     Ilk spring they’re new deckit wi’ bonie white yowes. 
     Then hey, for a lass, &c.

     And e’en when this Beauty your bosom hath blest
     The brightest o’ Beauty may cloy when possess’d;
     But the sweet, yellow darlings wi’ Geordie impress’d,
     The langer ye hae them, the mair they’re carest. 
     Then hey, for a lass, &c.