O but that loving laird Kingswells My blessings flow where his foot swells, Lang life to him whate’er befals, God be his guide, He’s cured a thousand thirsty sauls, An’ mine beside. O had I but thae days again, Which I sae freely spent in vain, I’d strive some better for to ken. What future chance Should blaw me here out o’er the main, An’ sae near France. But since that ills maun ay befall The chiel that will be prodigal; When wasted to the very spaul He turns his tusk, For want o’ comfort to his saul, On hungry husk. Now since I’m aff sae mony a mile, There’s naething got without some toil, I’ll wait; cross fortune yet may smile, Come want, come wealth, I’ll tak’ a pint in the mean while, To Heilden’s health. Sae, for a time, friends fare ye weel, My pot companions, true and leel, I wish ye all a merry yule, Much mirth and glee Nae mair young Jacks into the creel That day for me. _Some other Yule may yet cast up, When we again shall meet, To drown our sorrows in a cup, In case we live to see’t._ ELEGY ON MAGGY JOHNSTON, _Who died Anno Domini, 1711_ Auld Reeky mourn in sable hue, Let fouth o’ tears dreep like May dew, To bra’ tippeny bid adieu, Which we wi’ greed, Bended as fast as she could brew, But now she’s dead. To tell the truth now, Maggy dang, O’ customers she had a bang; For lairds an’ sutors a’ did thrang To drink bedeen; The barn an’ yard was aft sae thrang, We took the green. An’ there by dizens we lay down, Syne sweetly ca’d the healths aroun’, To bonny lasses, black or brown, As we lo’ed best; In bumpers we dull cares did drown, An’ took our rest. When in our pouch we fand some clinks, An’ took a turn o’er Bruntsfield Links, Aften in Maggy’s, at Hay-jinks, We guzzl’d scuds, Till we could scarce, wi’ hale-out drinks Cast aff our duds. We drank an’ drew, an’ fill’d again, O wow! but we were blythe an’ fain: When ony had their count mistane, O it was nice, To hear us a’ cry pick your bane, An’ spell your dice. Fou close we us’d to drink an’ rant, Until we baith did glowr and gaunt, An’ pish, an’ spue, an’ yesk, an’ maunt, Right swash I trow, Then aff auld stories we did chaunt, Whan we were fou.