Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

FOR a' the real judges rise,

They canna fit for anger.

***** opens out his cauld harangues, On practife and on morals;

An' aff the godly pour in thrangs,

To gie the jars an' barrels

A lift that day.

XV.

WHAT fignifies his barren shine,

Of moral pow'rs an' reafon?

His English ftyle, an' gefture fine,
Are a' clean out o' seafon.

Like Socrates or Antonine,

Or fome auld pagan Heathen,

The moral man he does define,

But

[ocr errors]

But ne'er a word o' faith in

That's right that day.

XVI.

IN guid time comes an antidote

Against fic poifon'd noftrum;

For *******, frae the water-fit,
Afcends the holy roftrum:
See, up he's got the word o' G-,

An' meek an' mim has view'd it,
While Common-Sense has ta'en the road,

An' aff, an' up the Cowgate*,

Faft, faft, that day.

VOL. I.

F

A street so called which faces the tent in

XVII.

XVII.

WEE ******, nieft, the Guard relieves,.

An' Orthodoxy raibles,

Tho' in his heart he weel believes,

An' thinks it auld wives' fables:

But, faith the birkie wants a Manfe,

So, cannily he hums them;

Altho' his carnal wit an' fenfe

Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him

At times that day.

XVIII.

Now but an' ben, the Change-house fills,

Wi' yill-caup Commentators:

Here's crying out for bakes and gills,

An' there the pint-flowp clatters;

While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang,

Wi' Logic, an' wi' Scripture,

They raise a din, that, in the end,

Is like to breed a rupture

XIX.

O' wrath that day.

LEEZE me on Drink! it gies us mair
Than either School or College :

It kindles Wit, it waukens Lair,
It pangs us fou o' Knowledge.

Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep,
Or ony ftronger potion,

It never fails, on drinking deep,

To kittle up our notion

XX.

By night or day.

THE lads an' laffes, blythely bent

To mind baith faul an' body,

Sit round the table, weel content,

An' fteer about the toddy.

On this ane's drefs, an' that ane's leuk,

They're making observations •

While fome are cozie i' the neuk,

An' formin affignations

To meet fome day.

XXI.

BUT now the L-d's ain trumpet touts,

Till a' the hills are rairin,

An' echoes back return the fhouts :

Black ****** is na fpairin;

His piercing words, like Highlan fwords,

Divide the joints an' marrow;

His talk o' H--11, where devils dwell,

Our

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »