DELIA.

FAIR the face of orient day,

Fair the tints of op'ning rose:
But fairer still my Delia dawns,

More lovely far her beauty shows.
Sweet the lark's wild warbled lay,
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear;
But, Delia, more delightful still,
Steal thine accents on mine ear.
The flower-enamoured busy bee,
The rosy banquet loves to sip;
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip.
But, Delia, on thy balmy lips

Let me, no vagrant insect, rove!
Oh, let me steal one liquid kiss,

For, oh! my soul is parched with love!

PEG NICHOLSON, 199

PEG Nicholson was a good bay mare,
As ever trod on airn;

But now she's floating down the Nith,
And past the mouth o' Cairn.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
And rode thro' thick and thin;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
And wanting e'en the skin.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
And ance she bore a priest;

But now she's floating down the Nith,
For Solway fish a feast.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
And the priest he rode her sair;

And much oppressed and bruis'd she was,
As priest-rid cattle are.

TO MY BED.

THOU bed, in which I first began
To be that various creature-Man!
And when again the Fates decree,
The place where I must cease to be;
When sickness comes, to whom I fly,
To soothe my pain, or close mine eye:
When cares surround me, where I weep,
Or lose them all in balmy sleep;
When sore with labour, whom I court,
And to thy downy breast resort;
Where too, ecstatic joys I find,
When deigns my Delia to be kind,
And full of love, in all her charms,
Thou giv'st the fair one to my arms,
The centre thou, where grief and pain,
Disease and rest, alternate reign,
Oh, since within thy little space,
So inany various scenes take place;
Lessons as useful shalt thou teach,
As sages dictate-churchmen preach;
And man, convinced by thee alone,
This great important truth shall own:
"That thin partitions do divide
The bounds were good and ill reside;
That nought is perfect here below
But BLISS still bordering upon WOE."200

SECOND EPISPLE TO MR. GRAHAM,
OF FINTRY.201

FINTRY, my stay in worldly strife,
Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life!
Are ye as idle's I am?

Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg,
O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg,

And ye shall see me try him.

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears,
Who left the all-important cares

Of princes and their darlings;
And, bent on winning borough towns,
Came shaking hands wi' wabster loons,
And kissing burefit carlins.
Combustion through our boroughs rode
Whistling his roaring pack abroad,
Of mad, unmuzzled lions;

As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl'd,
And Westerha' and Hopetoun hurl'd
To every Whig defiance.

But Queensberry, cautious, left the war,
The unmanner'd dust might soil his star,
Besides, he hated bleeding;
But left behind him heroes bright,
Heroes in Cæsarean fight

Or Ciceronian pleading.

O for a throat like huge Mons-meg,202
To muster o'er each ardent Whig
Beneath Drumlanrig's banners:
Heroes and heroines commix
All in the field of politics,

To win immortal honours.
M'Murdo and his lovely spouse,
(Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows,)
Led on the laves and graces;
She won each gaping burgess' heart,
While he, all-conquering, play'd his part,
Among their wives and lasses.
Craigdarroch led a light-arm'd corps;
Tropes, metaphors, and figures pour,
Like Hecla streaming thunder;
Glenriddel, skill'd in rusty coins,
Blew up each Tory's dark designs,
And bared the treason under.

In either wing two champions fought,
Redoubted Staig, who set at nought

The wildest savage Tory;

And Welsh, who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground, High wav'd his magnum bonum round

With Cyclopean fury.

Miller brought up the artillery ranks,
The many pounders of the Banks,
Resistless desolation;

While Maxwelton, that baron bold,
Mid Lawson's port entrench'd his hold,
And threaten'd worse damnation.
To these, what Tory hosts oppos'd;
With these, what Tory warriors clos'd,
Surpasses my descriving:
Squadrons extended long and large,
With furious speed rush'd to the charge,
Like raging devils driving.

What verse can sing, what prose narrate,
The butcher deeds of bloody fate

Amid this mighty tulzic?
Grim Horror grinn'd; pale Terror roar'd
As Murther at his thrapple shor'd;
And hell mixt in the brulzie!

As Highland crags, by thunder cleft,
When lightnings fire the stormy lift,
Hurl down wi' crashing rattle;
As flames amang a hundred woods;
As headlong foam a hundred floods-
Such is the rage of battle.
The stubborn Tories dare to die;
As soon the rooted oaks would fly,
Before th' approaching fellers;
The Whigs come on like ocean's roar,
When all his wintry billows pour

Against the Buchan Bullers.203

Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night,
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight,

And think on former darins!
The muffled murtherer of Charles204
The Magna Charta flag unfurls,

All deadly gules its bearing.

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame;
Bold Scrimgeour205 follows gallant
hame-206

Auld Covenanters shiver-
(Forgive, forgive, much-wrong'd Montrose;
While death and hell engulf'd thy foes,
Thou liv'st on high for ever!)

Still o'er the field the combat burns;
The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns;
But fate the word has spoken-
For woman's wit, or strength of man,
Alas! can do but what they can-

The Tory ranks are broken!

Oh that my e'en were flowing burns!
My voice a lioness that mourns

Her darling cub's undoing!
That I might greet, that I might cry,
While Tories fall, while Tories fly,

And furious Whigs pursuing!

What Whig but wails the good Sir James; Dear to his country by the names,

Friend, Patron, Benefactor?

Not Pulteny's wealth can Pulteny save!
And Hopetoun falls, the generous, brave!
And Stuart, bold as Hector!

Thou, Pitt, shall rue this overthrow,
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe,

And Melville melt in wailing!
Now Fox and Sheridan, rejoice!
And Burke shall sing, "Oh prince, arise!
Thy power is all-prevailing!"

For your poor friend, the Bard, afar,
He hears, and only hears the war,
A cool spectator purely;

So when the storm the forest rends,
The robin in the hedge descends,
And sober chirps securely.

ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB.

TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY.207
LONG life, my Lord, and health be yours,
Unscaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors!
Lord, grant nae duddie, desperate beggar,
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger,
May twin auld Scotland o' a life
She likes-as lambkins like a knife!
Faith, you and Applecross were right
To keep the Highland hounds in sight;
I doubt na' they wad bid nae better.
Than, let them ance out owre the water;
Then up amang thae lakes and seas
They'll mak what rules and laws they please!
Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin,
May set their Highland blud a-ranklin';
Some Washington again may head them,
Or some Montgomery, fearless. lead them!
Till God knows what may be effected
When by such heads and hearts directed;
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire,
May to Patrican rights aspire!
Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville,
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile!
And whare will ye get Howes and Clintons
To bring them to a right repentance,
To cowe the rebel generation,
And save the honour o' the nation?

They! and be d--d! what right hae they
To meat or sleep, or light o' day?
Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom,
But what your lordship likes to gie them!
But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear:
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,
I canna say but they do gaylies';
They lay aside a' tender mercies,
And tiri the hallions to the birses;

Yet, while they're only poind't and herriet,
They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit;

The young dogs, swinge them to the labour
Let wark and hunger mak them sober!
The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont,
Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd!
And if the wives and dirty brats
Come thiggin' at your doors and yetts,
Flaffan wi' duds and grey wi' beas',
Frightin' awa' your deucks and geese,
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
And gar the tattered gypsies' pack
Wi' a' their bastards on their back!

Go on, my Lord! I lang te meet you,
And in my house at hame to greet you!
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle;
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right han' assigned your seat
"Tween Herod's hip and Polycrate-
Or if you on your station tarrow,
Between Almagro and Pizarro;

A seat, I'm sure, ye're weel deservin't;
And till ye come-Your humble servant,
BEELZEBUB.
June 1st, Anno Mundi, 5790.

LIBERTY-A FRAGMENT. THEE, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song,To thee I turn with swimming eyes! Where is that soul of freedom fled? Immingled with the mighty dead,

Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace lies!
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death!
Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep!
Disturb not ye the hero's sleep,

Nor give the coward secret breath.
Is this the power in freedom's war,
That wont to bid the battle rage?
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate,
Crushing the despot's proudest bearing!
Behold e'en grizzly death's majestic state
When Freedom's sacred glance e'en death is
wearing.

TO MR. MAXWELL,

OF TERRAUGHTY, ON HIS BIRTH-DAY.
HEALTH to the Maxwell's vet'ran chief!
Health, aye unsour'd by care or grief:
Inspir'd, I turn Fate's sybil leaf
This natal morn;

I see thy life is stuff o' prief,

Scarce quite half worn.

This day thou mete'st threescore eleven,
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven
(The second, sight, ye ken, is given
To ilka Poet)

On thee a tack o' seven times seven
Will yet bestow it.

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow
Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow,
May Desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow,
Nine miles an hour,
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah,
In brunstane stoure!
But for thy friends, and they are mony,
Baith honest men and lassies bonnie,
My couthie fortune, kind and cannie,
In social glee,

Wi' mornings biythe and e'enings funny,
Bless them and thee!

Fareweel, auld Birkie! Lord be near ye,
And then the deil he daurna steer ye:
Your friends aye love, your faes aye fear ye;
For me, shame fa' me,

If near'st my heart 1 dinna wear ye,
While BURNS they ca' me!

THE TREE OF LIBERTY.

HEARD ye o' the tree o' France,
I watňa what's the name o't;
Around it a' the patriots dance,

Weel Europe kens the fame o't.
It stands where ance the Bastile stood,
A prison built by kings, man,
When Superstition's hellish brood

Kept France in leading strings, man,
Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit,
It's virtues a' can tell, man;
It raises man aboon the brute,

It maks him ken himsel', man.
If ance the peasant taste a bite,
He's greater than a lord, man,
And wi' the beggar shares a mite
O' a' he can afford, man.

This fruit is worth a' Afric's wealth,
To comfort us 'twas sent, man:
To gie the sweetest blush o' health,
And mak us a' content, man.
It clears the e'en, it cheers the heart,
Maks high and low guid frends, man;
And he wha acts the traitor's part,
It to perdition sends, man.
My blessings aye attend the chief,
Wha pitied Gallia's slaves, man,
And straw'd a branch, spite o' the deil,
Frae yon't the western waves, man.
Fair Virtue water'd it wi' care,

And now she sees wi' pride, man,
How weel it buds and blossoms, there,
Its branches spreading wide, man.

But vicious folk aye hate to see

The works o' Virtue thrive, man;
The courtly vermin's banned the tree,
And grat to see it thrive, man.
King Louis thought to cut it down,
When it was unco sma', man;

For this the watchman cracked his crown,
Cut aff his head and a', man.

A wicked crew syne, on a time,
Did tak a solemn aith, man,
It ne'er should flourish to its prime,
I wat they pledged their faith, man;
Awa', they gaed wi' mock parade

Like beagles hunting game, man,
But soon grew weary o' the trade,
And wished they'd been at hame, man.
For Freedom, standing by the time,
Her sons did loudly ca', man;
She sang a song o' liberty,

Which pleased them ane and a', man.
By her inspired, the new-born race
Soon drew the avenging steel, man;
The hirelings ran-her focs gied chase,
And banged the despot weel, man.
Let Britain boast her hardy oak,

Her poplar and her pine, man,
Auld Britain ance could crack her joke,
And o'er her neighbours shine, mian.
But seek the forest round and round,
And soon 'twill be agreed, man,
That sic a tree can not be found,
"Twixt London and the Tweed, man.
Without this tree, alack this life
Is but a vale o' woe, inan;
A scene o' sorrow, mixed wi' strife,
Nac real joys we know, man.
We labour soon, we labour late,
To feed the titled knave, man;
And a' the comfort we're to get,
Is that ayont the grave, man.

Wi' plenty o' sic trees, I trow,

The warld would live in peace, man:. The sword would help to mak' a plough, The din o' war wad cease, man.

EPISTLE FROM ÆSOPUS TO MARIA. 209FROM those drear solitudes and frowsy cells, Where infamy with sad repentance dwells; Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast, And deal from iron hands the spare repast: Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin, Blush at the curious stranger peeping in; Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar, Resolve to drink, nay, half to whore no more: Where tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swing, Beat hemp for others, riper for the string: From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date,

To tell Maria her Esopus' fate.

"Alas! I feel I am no actor here!"
"Tis real hangmen, real scourges bear,
Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale,

Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale;

Will make thy hair, tho' erst from gipsy poll'd, By barber woven, and by barber sold,

Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest

care,

Like hoary bristles to erect and stare.
The hero of the mimic scene, no more,

I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar;

Or haughty chieftain, mid the din of arms,
In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms;
While sans-culottes stoop up the mountain high,
And steal from me Maria's prying eye.
Blest Highland bonnet! once my proudest dress,
Now prouder still, Maria's temples press,
I see her wave thy towering plumes afar,
And call each coxcomb to the wordy war:
I see her face the first of Ireland's sons,210
And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze:
The crafty colonel211 leaves the tartaned lines
For other wars, where he a hero shines:
The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred,
Who owts a Bushby's heart without the head,
Comes mid a string of coxcombs to display,
That veni, vidi, vici, is his way;

The shrinking bard adown an alley skulks,
And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich

hulks;

Though there, his heresies in Church and State Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate:

Still she undaunted reels and rattles on,
And dares the public like a moontide sun.
(What scandal call'd Maria's jaunty stagger,
The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger;
Whose spleen e'en worse than Burns' venom,
when

He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen,
And pours his vengeance in the burning line,
Who christen'd thus Maria's lyre divine,
The idiot strum of vanity bemused,
And even th' abuse of poesy abused:

Who call'd her verse a parish Workhouse, made
For motley, foundling fancies, stolen or stray'd?)
A Workhouse! ah, that sound awakes my woes,
And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose!
In durance vile here must I wake and weep,
And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep!
That straw where many a rogue has lain of
yore,

And vermin'd Gipsies litter'd heretofore.

Why Lonsdale thus, thy wrath on vagrants pour?

Must earth no rascal save thyself endure?
Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell,
And make a vast monopoly of hell?

Thou know'st the Virtues cannot hate thee worse;

The Vices also, must they club their curse?
Or must no tiny sin to others fall,
Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all?
Maria, send me, too thy griefs and cares;
In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares.
As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls,
Who on my fair one Satire's vengeance hurls?
Who calls thec pert, affected, vain, coquette,
A wit in folly, and a fool in wit?
Who says that fool alone is not thy duc,
And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true?
Our force united on thy foes we'll turn,
And dare the war with all of women born:
For who can write and speak as thou and I?
My periods that decyphering defy,
And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all
reply.

THE VOWELS.

A TALE.

"TWAS where the birch and sounding thong are

plied,

The noisy domicile of pedant pride:

Where Ignorance her dark'ning vapour throws,
And Cruelty directs the thick ning blows;
Upon a time, Sir A-be-ce the great,
In all his pedagogic powers elate,
His awful chair of state resolves to mount,
And call the trembling vowels to account.

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight,
But, ah! deform'd, dishonest to the sight!
His twisted head look'd backward on his way.
And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, ai!
Reluctant, E stalk'd in; with piteous race
The jostling tears run down his honest face!
That name, that well-worn name, and all his
own,

Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne!
The Pedant stifles keen the Roman sound
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound;
And next the title following close behind,
Ile to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd.
The cobweb'd Gothic dome resounded Y!
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply:
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round,
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground!

In rueful appréhension enter'd O,

The wailing minstrel of despairing woe:
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert,
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his

art;

So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U,
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew!

As trembling U stood staring all aghast,
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast,
In helpless infant's tears he dipp'd his right,
Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sight.

VERSES TO JOHN RANKINE. ONE day, as Death, that grusome carle, Was driving to the tither warl' A mixtie-maxtic, motley squad, And mony a guilt-bespotted lad; Black gowns of each denomination, And thieves of every rank and station. From him that wears the star and garter, To him that wintles in a halter: Ashamed himsel' to see the wretches, He mutters, glowrin' at the bitches, "By G-, I'll not be seen behint them, Nor 'mang th' sp'ritual core present them, Without, at least, ane honest man, To grace this d-d infernal clan." By Adamhill a glance he threw, "L-G-d!" quoth he, "I have it now, "There's just the man I want, i' faith!" And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath.

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE
CHILD.212

Он, sweet be thy sleep in the land of the grave,
My dear little angel, for ever;

For ever-oli, no! let not man be a slave,
His hopes from existence to sever.

Though cold be the clay where thou pillow'st thy head,

In the dark silent mansions of sorrow, The spring shall return to thy low narrow bed, Like the beam of the day star to-morrow.

The flower stem shall bloom like thy sweet seraph form,

Ere the spoiler had nipt thee in blossom, When thou shrunk'st frae the scowl of the loud

winter storm,

And nestled thec close to that bosom.

Oh! still I behold thee, all lovely in death,
Reclined on the lap of thy mother;
When the tear trickled bright, when the short
stifled breath,

Told how dear ye were aye to each other.
My child, thou art gone to the home of thy rest,
Where suffering no longer can harm thee,
Where the songs of the good, where the hymns
of the blest,

Through an endless existence shall charm thee.

While he, thy fond parent, must sighing sojourn,

Through the dire desert regions of sorrow, O'er the hope and misfortune of being to mourn, And sigh for this life's latest morrow.

THE RUINED MAID'S LAMENT.

OH, meikle do I rue, fause love,
Or sairly do I ruc,

That e'er I heard your flattering tongue,
That e'er your face I knew.
Oh, I hac tent my rosy cheeks,
Likewise my waist sac sma';
And I hae lost my lightsome heart,
That little wist a fa'.

Now I maun thole the scornfu' sneer
O' mony a saucy quean:
When, gin the truth were a' but kent,
Her life's been warse than mine.

THE DEAN OF THE FACULTY.
A NEW BALLAD.213

Tune-"The Dragon of Wantley."
DIRE was the hate at old Harlaw,
That Scot to Scot did carry;
And dire the discord Land saw,
For beauteous hapless Mary:
But Scot with Scot ne'er so hot,

Or were more in fury seen, Sir,'

Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job-
Who should be Faculty's Dean, Sir.

This Hal for genius, wit, and lore,
Among the first was number'd;
But pious Bob, mid learning's store,
Commandment tenth remember'd.
Yet simple Bob the victory got,

And won his heart's desire;

Which shows that Heaven can boil the pot,
Though the devil p--in the fire.
Squire Hal besides had in this case
Pretensions rather brassy,
For talents to deserve a place
Are qualifications saucy;

So their worships of the Faculty,"
Quite sick of merit's rudeness,

Choose one who should owe it all, d'ye see,
To their gratis grace and goodness.

As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight
Of a son of Circumcision,

So may be, on this Pisgah height,
Bob's purblind, mental vision:
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet,
Till for eloquence you hail him,
And swear he has the Angel met
That met the Ass of Balaam.

In your heretic sins may you live and die,
Ye heretic Eight-and-thirty,

But accept, ye sublime majority,

My congratulations hearty.

With your Honours and a certain King
In your servants this is striking,

The more incapacity they bring
The more they're to your liking.

ON THE

VERSES

DESTRUCTION OF THE WOODS NEAR
DRUMLANRIG,214

As on the banks o' wandering Nith,
Ane smiling simmer-morn I strayed,
And traced its bonnie howes and haughs,
Where linties sang and lambkins play'd:
I sat me down upon a craig,

And drank my fill o' fancy's dream,
When, from the eddying deep below,
Uprose the genius of the stream.
Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow,
And troubled, like his wintry wave,
And deep, as sighs the boding wind
Amang his eaves, the sigh he gave-
"And came ye here, my son," he cried,
To wander in my birken shade?
To muse some favourite Scottish theme,
Or sing some favourite Scottish maid?

"There was a time-it's nae lang syne, Ye might hae seen me in my pride, When a' my banks sae bravely saw

Their woody pictures in my tide:
When hanging beech and spreading elm
Shaded by streams sae clear and cool;
And stately oaks their twisted arms
Threw broad and dark across the pool.

"When, glinting through the trees, appeared
The wee white cot aboon the mill,
And peacefu' rose its ingle reek,
That slowly curled up the hill.
But now the cot is bare and cauld,
It's branchy shelter's lost and gane,
And scarce a stinted birk is left
To shiver in the blast its lape."
"Alas!" said I, "what ruefu' chance
Has twin'd ye o' your stately trees?
Has laid your rocky bosom bare?

Has stripp'd the cleeding o' your braes?
Was it the bitter eastern blast,

That scattered blight in early spring? Or was't the wil'fire scorched their boughs, Or canker-worm wi' secret sting?" "Nae eastlin' blast," the sprite replied: "It blew na here sae fierce and fell, And on my dry and whalesome banks Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell: Man! cruel man!" the genius sigh'd

As through the cliffs he sank him down"The worm that gnaw'd my bonnie trees, That reptile wears a ducal crown.'

ON THE DUKE OF QUEENSBERRY, 215 How shall I sing Drumlanrig's GraceDiscarded remnant of a race

Once great in martial story?
His forbears' virtues all contrasted-
The very name of Dougla 3 blasted-
His that inverted glory.

Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore;
But he has superadded inore,

And sunk them in contempt; Follies and crimes have stain'd the name, But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim, From ought that's good exempt.

VERSES TO JOHN MMURDO, ESQ.

[WITH A PRESENT OF BOOKS. 216
Он, could I give thee India's wealth
As I this trifle send!
Because thy joy in both would be

To share them with a friend.

But golden sands did never grace

The Heliconian stream:

Then take what gold could never buyAn honest Bard's esteem.

ON MR. M'MURDO.

INSCRIBED ON A PANE OF GLASS IN HIS HOUSE.
BLEST be M Murdo to his latest day!
No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray;
No wrinkle furrowed by the hand of care,
Nor ever sorrow add one silver hair!
Oh, may no son the father's honour stain,
Nor ever daughter give the mother pain!

IMPROMPTU ON WILLIE STEWART,217
YOU'RE Welcome, Willie Stewart,
You're welcome, Willie Stewart,
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May,
That's half sae welcoine's thou art.

Come, bumpers high, express your joy,
The bowl we mann renew it;

The tappit-ken gae bring her ben,
To welcome Willie Stewart.