When skirling weanies see the light,
     Though maks the gossips clatter bright,
     How fumblin’ cuiffs their dearies slight;
     Wae worth the name! 
     Nae howdie gets a social night,
     Or plack frae them.

     When neibors anger at a plea,
     An’ just as wud as wud can be,
     How easy can the barley brie
     Cement the quarrel! 
     It’s aye the cheapest lawyer’s fee,
     To taste the barrel.

     Alake! that e’er my muse has reason,
     To wyte her countrymen wi’ treason! 
     But mony daily weet their weason
     Wi’ liquors nice,
     An’ hardly, in a winter season,
     E’er Spier her price.

     Wae worth that brandy, burnin trash! 
     Fell source o’ mony a pain an’ brash! 
     Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash,
     O’ half his days;
     An’ sends, beside, auld Scotland’s cash
     To her warst faes.

     Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well! 
     Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
     Poor, plackless devils like mysel’! 
     It sets you ill,
     Wi’ bitter, dearthfu’ wines to mell,
     Or foreign gill.

     May gravels round his blather wrench,
     An’ gouts torment him, inch by inch,
     What twists his gruntle wi’ a glunch
     O’ sour disdain,
     Out owre a glass o’ whisky-punch
     Wi’ honest men!

     O Whisky! soul o’ plays and pranks! 
     Accept a bardie’s gratfu’ thanks! 
     When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
     Are my poor verses! 
     Thou comes—­they rattle in their ranks,
     At ither’s a-s!

     Thee, Ferintosh!  O sadly lost! 
     Scotland lament frae coast to coast! 
     Now colic grips, an’ barkin hoast
     May kill us a’;
     For loyal Forbes’ charter’d boast
     Is ta’en awa?

     Thae curst horse-leeches o’ the’ Excise,
     Wha mak the whisky stells their prize! 
     Haud up thy han’, Deil! ance, twice, thrice! 
     There, seize the blinkers! 
     An’ bake them up in brunstane pies
     For poor damn’d drinkers.

     Fortune! if thou’ll but gie me still
     Hale breeks, a scone, an’ whisky gill,
     An’ rowth o’ rhyme to rave at will,
     Tak a’ the rest,
     An’ deal’t about as thy blind skill
     Directs thee best.

1786

The Auld Farmer’s New-Year-Morning Salutation To His Auld Mare, Maggie

     On giving her the accustomed ripp of corn to hansel in the New Year.

     A Guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie! 
     Hae, there’s a ripp to thy auld baggie: 
     Tho’ thou’s howe-backit now, an’ knaggie,
     I’ve seen the day
     Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie,
     Out-owre the lay.

     Tho’ now thou’s dowie, stiff, an’ crazy,
     An’ thy auld hide as white’s a daisie,
     I’ve seen thee dappl’t, sleek an’ glaizie,
     A bonie gray: 
     He should been tight that daur’t to raize thee,
     Ance in a day.