Whaur braid the briery muirs expand, A waefue' an' a weary land, The bumble-bees, a gowden band, Are blithely hingin'; An' there the canty wanderer fand The laverock singin'. Trout in the burn grow great as herr'n'; The simple sheep can find their fair'n'; The winds blaws clean about the cairn Wi' caller air; The muircock an' the barefit bairn Are happy there. Sic-like the howes o' life to some: Green loans whaur they ne'er fash their thumb, But mark the muckle winds that come, Soopin' an' cool, Or hear the powrin' burnie drum In the shilfa's pool. The evil wi' the guid they tak'; They ca' a grey thing grey, no' black; To a steigh brae a stubborn back Addressin' daily; An' up the rude, unbieldy track O' life, gang gaily. What you would like's a palace ha', Or Sinday parlour dink an' braw Wi' a' things ordered in a raw By denty leddies. Weel, then, ye canna hae't: that's a' That to be said is. An' since at life ye've ta'en the grue, An' winna blithely hirsle through, Ye've fund the very thing to do-- That's to drink speerit; An' shuene we'll hear the last o' you-- An' blithe to hear it! The shoon ye coft, the life ye lead, Ithers will heir when aince ye're deid; They'll heir your tasteless bite o' breid, An' find it sappy; They'll to your dulefue' house succeed, An' there be happy. As whan a glum an' fractious wean Has sat an' sullened by his lane Till, wi' a rowstin' skelp, he's ta'en An' shoo'd to bed---- The ither bairns a' fa' to play'n', As gleg's a gled. IX THE COUNTERBLAST IRONICAL It's strange that God should fash to frame The yearth and lift sae hie, An' clean forget to explain the same To a gentleman like me. Thae gusty, donnered ither folk, Their weird they weel may dree; But why present a pig in a poke To a gentleman like me? Thae ither folk their parritch eat An' sup their sugared tea; But the mind is no' to be wyled wi' meat Wi' a gentleman like me. Thae ither folk, they court their joes At gloamin' on the lea; But they're made of a commoner clay, I suppose, Than a gentleman like me. Thae ither folk, for richt or wrang, They suffer, bleed, or dee; But a' thir things are an emp'y sang To a gentleman like me. It's a different thing that I demand, Tho' humble as can be-- A statement fair in my Maker's hand To a gentleman like me: A clear account writ fair an' broad, An' a plain apologie; Or the deevil a ceevil word to God From a gentleman like me. X THEIR LAUREATE TO AN ACADEMY CLASS DINNER CLUB Dear Thamson class, whaure'er I gang It aye comes ower me wi' a spang: "_Lordsake! thae Thamson lads--(deil hang Or else Lord mend them!)-- An' that wanchancy annual sang I ne'er can send them!_"