But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, Say ‘Such is royal George’s will, An’ there’s the foe!’ He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow. Nae cauld faint-hearted doubtings tease him; Death comes, wi’ fearless eye he sees him; Wi’ bluidy hand a welcome gies him; An’, when he fa’s, His latest draught o’ breathin’ lea’es him In faint huzzas. Sages their solemn een may steek, An’ raise a philosophic reek, An’ physically causes seek In clime an’ season; But tell me whisky’s name in Greek, I’ll tell the reason. A BOUSING CATCH My love she’s but a lassie yet; My love she’s but a lassie yet; We’ll let her stand a year or twa, She’ll no be half sae saucy yet. I rue the day I sought her, O, I rue the day I sought her, O; Wha gets her needs na say she’s woo’d, But he may say he’s bought her, O! Come, draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet; Come, draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet; Gae seek for pleasure where ye will, But here I never miss’d it yet. We’re a’ dry wi’ drinking o’t, We’re a’ dry wi’ drinking o’t; The minister kiss’d the fiddler’s wife, An’ could na preach for thinkin’ o’t. THE MALTWORM’S RUNE O guid ale comes, and guid ale goes, Guid ale gars me sell my hose, Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon; Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. I had sax owsen in a pleugh, And they drew a’ weel eneugh, I sell’d them a’ just ane by ane; Guid ale keeps the heart aboon. Guid ale hauds me bare and busy, Gars me moop wi’ the servant hizzie, Stand i’ the stool when I hae done; Guid ale keeps the heart aboon. POETS FOR EVER! (SECOND EPISTLE TO THE OLD SCOTTISH BARD) While new-ca’d kye rowte at the stake, An’ pownies reek in pleugh or braik, This hour on e’enin’s edge I take, To own I’m debtor, To honest-hearted auld Lapraik, For his kind letter. Forjeskit sair, with weary legs, Rattlin’ the corn out-owre the rigs, Or dealing thro’ amang the naigs Their ten-hours’ bite, My awkwart Muse sair pleads and begs I would na write. The tapetless, ramfeezl’d hizzie, She’s saft at best, and something lazy, Quo’ she ‘Ye ken we’ve been sae busy, This month an’ mair, That trouth my head is grown quite dizzie, An’ something sair.’ Her dowff excuses pat me mad; ‘Conscience,’ says I, ‘ye thowless jad! I’ll write, an’ that a hearty blaud, This very night; So dinna ye affront your trade, But rhyme it right.