Altho’ his daddie was nae laird, And tho’ I hae nae meikle tocher, Yet rich in kindest, truest love, We’ll tent our flocks by Gala Water. It ne’er was wealth, it ne’er was wealth, That coft contentment, peace or pleasure; The bands and bliss o’ mutual love, O that’s the chiefest warld’s treasure! IN A FRIEND’S CAUSE (“FOR WILLIE CHALMERS.”) Wi’ braw new branks in mickle pride, And eke a braw new brechan, My Pegasus I’m got astride, And up Parnassus pechin’; Whiles owre a bush wi’ downward crush, The doited beastie stammers; Then up he gets, and off he sets For sake o’ Willie Chalmers. I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn’d name May cost a pair o’ blushes; I am nae stranger to your fame Nor his warm urgèd wishes. Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet, His honest heart enamours, And faith ye’ll no be lost a whit, Tho’ waired on Willie Chalmers. Auld Truth hersel might swear ye’re fair, And Honour safely back her, And Modesty assume your air, And ne’er a ane mistak’ her: And sic twa love-inspiring een Might fire even holy palmers; Nae wonder then they’ve fatal been To honest Willie Chalmers. I doubt na fortune may you shore Some mim-mou’d pouther’d priestie, Fu’ lifted up wi’ Hebrew lore, And band upon his breastie: But oh! what signifies to you His lexicons and grammars; The feeling heart’s the royal blue, And that’s wi’ Willie Chalmers. Some gapin’ glowrin’ country laird May warsle for your favour; May claw his lug, and straik his beard, And host up some palaver. My bonnie maid, before ye wed Sic clumsy-witted hammers, Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp Awa’ wi’ Willie Chalmers. Forgive the Bard! my fond regard For ane that shares my bosom Inspires my muse to gie ’m his dues. For de’il a hair I roose him. May powers aboon unite you soon, And fructify your amours, And every year come in mair dear To you and Willie Chalmers. SCOTCH DRINK _Gie him strong drink, until he wink, That’s sinking in despair; An’ liquor guid to fire his bluid, That’s prest wi’ grief an’ care; There let him bouse, an’ deep carouse, Wi’ bumpers flowing o’er, Till he forgets his loves or debts, An’ minds his griefs no more._ SOLOMON (Proverbs xxxi. 6, 7). Let other Poets raise a fracas ’Bout vines, an’ wines, an’ drucken Bacchus, An’ crabbèd names an’ stories wrack us, An’ grate our lug; I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, In glass or jug.