XXVIII. Wr' merry fangs, an' friendly cracks, I wat they did na weary; And unco tales, an' funnie jokes, Their sports were cheap an' cheary : Till butter'd So'ns *, wi' fragrant lunt, Syne, wi' a focial glass o' ftrunt, They parted aff careerin Fu' blythe that night、 VOL. 1. S THE * Sowens with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween Supper. 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 onie ftaggie Out-owre the lay. THO' now thou's dowie, ftiff, an' crazy, An' thy auld hide as white's a daifie, I've feen thee dappl't, fleek an' glaizie, A bonie gray; He fhould been tight that daur't to raize thee, Ance in a day. THOU ance was i' the foremost rank, A filly buirdly, fteeve, an' fwank, An' fet weel down a fhapely fhank, As e'er tread yird; An' could hae flown out-owre a flank, Like onie bird. It's now fome nine an'-twenty year, Sin' thou was my Guid-father's Meere; He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, An' fifty mark; Tho' it was fma', 'twas weel-won gear, WHEN first I gaed to woo my Jenny, Ye then was trettin wi' your Minnie: Tho ye was trickie, flee, an' funnie, Ye ne'er was donfie But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, An' unco fonfie, THAT day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, When ye bure hame my bonie Bride: An' fweet an' gracefu' fhe did ride, Wi' maiden air! Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide, For fic a pair. THO' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble, An' wintle like a faumont-coble, That day, ye was a jinker noble, For heels an' win'! An' An' ran them till they a' did wauble, Far, far behin'! WHEN thou an' I were young an' fkiegh, An' ftable-meals at Fairs were driegh, How thou wad prance, an' fnore' an' fkriegh, An' take the road! Town's-bodies ran, an' ftood abiegh, An' ca't thee mad. WHEN thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, We took the road ay like a Swallow: At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, For pith an" fpeed; But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, Whare'er thou gaed. THE fma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle, |