THE DAFT DAYS.

[Corresponding in Scotland to Christmas holidays in England.]

Now mirk1 December's dowie 2 face

3

Glowrs owr the rigs wi' sour grimace,
While, thro' his minimum of space,
The bleer-ey'd sun,

Wi' blinkin light and stealing pace,
His race doth run.

From naked groves nae birdie sings;
To shepherd's pipe nae hillock rings;
The breeze nae od❜rous flavour brings
From Borean cave;

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And dwyning Nature droops her wings,
Wi' visage grave.

Mankind but scanty pleasure glean
Frae snawy hill or barren plain,
Whan Winter, 'midst his nipping train,
Wi' frozen spear,

Sends drift owr a' his bleak domain,

And guides the weir3.

Auld Reikie! thou 'rt the canty hole,

9

A bield for mony caldrife soul,

Wha snugly at thine ingle loll,

Baith warm and couth 10;
While round they gar the bicker 11 roll
To weet their mouth.

When merry Yule-day comes, I trow,
You'll scantlins find a hungry mou;
Sma' are our cares, our stamacks fu'
O' gusty gear 12,

And kickshaws, strangers to our view,
Sin' fairn-year 13.

1 brewer.

Ye browster' wives! now busk ye bra,
And fling your sorrows far awa';
Then, come and gie's the tither blaw"
Of reaming ale,

3

Mair precious than the Well of Spa,
Our hearts to heal.

Then, tho' at odds wi' a' the warl',
Amang oursells we'll never quarrel;
Tho' Discord gie a canker'd snarl
To spoil our glee,

As lang's there's pith into the barrel
We'll drink and 'gree.

Fiddlers! your pins in temper fix,
And roset weel your fiddlesticks,
But banish vile Italian tricks

From out your quorum,

Nor fortes wi' pianos mix

Gie's Tullochgorum®.

For nought can cheer the heart sae weel

As can a canty Highland reel;

It even vivifies the heel

To skip and dance:

Lifeless is he wha canna feel

Its influence.

Let mirth abound; let social cheer
Invest the dawning of the year;
Let blithesome innocence appear
To crown our joy;

Nor envy, wi' sarcastic sneer,

Our bliss destroy.

And thou, great god of aqua vitæ!

Wha sways the empire of this city-
When fou we're sometimes capernoity-
Be thou prepar'd

To hedge us frae that black banditti,

2 jorum.

The City Guard.

• foaming.

4

pegs.

7

5 rosin.

S Printed four years before Skinner's 'Tullochgorum' (p. 491). ' ill-tempered.

BRAID CLAITH.

Ye wha are fain to hae your name
Wrote in the bonny book of fame,
Let merit nae pretension claim

To laurel'd wreath,

But hap1 ye weel, baith back and wame,
In gude Braid Claith.

He that some ells o' this may fa',

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An' slae-black hat on pow1 like snaw,
Bids bauld to bear the gree" awa',

8

Wi' a' this graith",

Whan bienly clad wi' shell fu' braw

O' gude Braid Claith.

Waesuck for him wha has nae fek o't!

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For he's a gowk 10 they're sure to geck11 at,
A chield that ne'er will be respekit

While he draws breath,

Till his four quarters are bedeckit
Wi' gude Braid Claith.

On Sabbath-days the barber spark,
Whan he has done wi' scrapin wark,
Wi' siller broachie in his sark 12,

Gangs trigly, faith!

Or to the Meadow or the Park,

In gude Braid Claith.

Weel might ye trow, to see them there,
That they to shave your haffits 13 bare,
Or curl an' sleek a pickle 14 hair,

Wud be right laith 15

When pacing wi' a gawsy air 1

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In gude Braid Claith.

3

O' gude Braid Claith.

For gin he comes wi' coat thread-bare,

A feg for him she winna care,

But crook her bony mou' fu' sair,

An' scald him baith.

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Wooers shou'd ay their travel spare

Without Braid Claith.

Braid Claith lends fouk

an unco heese?

Makes mony kail-worms butter-flies,

Gies mony a doctor his degrees

For little skaith":

In short, you may be what you please
Wi' gude Braid Claith.

For thof ye had as wise a snout on,
As Shakespeare or Sir Isaac Newton,
Your judgment fouk wud hae a doubt on,
I'll tak' my aith,

Till they cou'd see ye wi' a suit on

Langsyne in Eden's bonny yard.'-Burns' Address to the Deil,

14 drunk.

A caller burn o' siller sheen,

Ran cannily out o'er the green,

And whan our gutcher's1 drouth had been
To bide right sair,

He loutit down and drank bedeen3

A dainty skair.

His bairns a' before the flood

Had langer tack o' flesh and blood,
And on mair pithy shanks they stood
Than Noah's line,

Wha still hae been a feckless brood
Wi' drinking wine.

The fuddlin' Bardies now-a-days
Rin maukin ®-mad in Bacchus' praise,
And limp and stoiter' thro' their lays
Anacreontic,

While each his sea of wine displays
As big's the Pontic.

My muse will no gang far frae hame,
Or scour a' airths to hound for fame;
In troth, the jillet9 ye might blame

Whan eithly

For thinking on 't,
10 she can find the theme

Of aqua font.

This is the name that doctors use
Their patients' noddles to confuse;
Wi' simples clad in terms abstruse,
They labour still,

In kittle words to gar your roose
Their want o' skill.

12

But we'll hae nae sick clitter-clatter,
And briefly to expound the matter,
It shall be ca'd good Caller Water,
Than whilk, I trow,

Few drogs in doctors' shops are better