The evil wi’ the guid they tak; They ca’ a gray thing gray, 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, than, ye cannae hae’t: that’s a’ That to be said is. An’ since at life ye’ve taen the grue, An’ winnae blithely hirsle through, Ye’ve fund the very thing to do— That’s to drink speerit; An’ shüne 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 dulefü’ 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 taen 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. They gutsy, donnered ither folk, Their weird they weel may dree; But why present a pig in a poke To a gentleman like me? They 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. They 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. They 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_! _they Thamson lads_—(_deil hang_ _Or else Lord mend them_!)— _An’ that wanchancy annual sang_ _I ne’er can send them_!” Straucht, at the name, a trusty tyke, My conscience girrs ahint the dyke; Straucht on my hinderlands I fyke To find a rhyme t’ ye; Pleased—although mebbe no pleased-like— To gie my time t’ye. “_Weel_,” an’ says you, wi’ heavin’ breist, “_Sae far_, _sae guid_, _but what’s the neist_? _Yearly we gaither to the feast_, _A’ hopefü’ men_— _Yearly we skelloch_ ‘_Hang the beast_— _Nae sang again_!’”