In Algebra weel skill'd he was,
An' kent fu' weel proportion's laws;
He cou'd mak clear baith B's and A's
Wi' his lang head;

Rin owr surd roots but cracks or flaws;
But now he's dead.

Weel vers'd was he in architecture,
An' kent the nature of the sector,
Upo' baith globes he weel cou'd lecture,

An' gar's tak heed;

O' geometry he was the Hector;

But now he's dead.

Sae weel's he'd fley the students a',
Whan they were skelpin' at the ba',
They took leg-bail, and ran awa'

Wi' pith an' speed;

We winna get a sport sae bra',

Sin' Gregory's dead.

Great 'casion hae we a' to weep,
An' cleed our skins in mournin' deep
For Gregory death will fairly keep

To tak his nap;

He'll till the resurrection sleep

As sound's a tap.

THE DAFT DAYS.

NOW mirk December's dowie face, Glowrs owr the rigs wi' sour grimace, While, thro' his minimum o' space,

The bleer-ey'd sun,

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

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

And dwynin 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 weir..

Auld Reikie! thou'rt the canty hole,
A bield for mony a cauldrife soul,
Wha snugly at thine ingle loll,

Baith warm and couth;

While round they gar the bicker roll, To weet their mouth.

Whan merry Yule-day comes, I trow,
You'll scantlins fin' a hungry mou;
Sma' are our cares, our stamacks fou
O' gusty gear,

An' kickshaws, strangers to our view
Sin' Fairn-year.

Ye browster wives, now busk ye bra',
An' fling your sorrows far awa';
Then come an' gie's the tither blaw
O' reaming ale,

Mair precious than the well o' Spa,
Our hearts to heal.

Then, tho' at odds wi' a' the warl',
Amang oursels we'll never quarrel;
Tho' Discord gie a canker'd snarl

To spoil our glee,

As lang's there pith into the barrel

We'll drink an' 'gree.

Fidlers, your pins in temper fix,
And roset weel your fiddle-sticks,
But banish vile Italian tricks

Frae out your quorum,

Nor fortes wi' pianos mix,

Gie's Tulloch-Gorum.

For nought can cheer the heart sae well 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 Vitœ! Wha sways the empire o' this city, When fou we're sometimes capernoity,

Be thou prepar'd

To hedge us frae that black blanditti,

The City-Guard.

THE KING'S BIRTH-DAY,

IN EDINBURGH.

Oh! qualis hurly-burly fuit, si forte vidisses.

POLEMO-MIDDINIA:

I SING the day sae aften sung,
Wi' which our lugs hae yearly rung,
In whase loud praise the Muse has dung
A' kind o' print;

But wow! the limmer's fairly flung;

There's nathing in't.

I'm fain to think the joy's the same
In London town as here at hame,
Whare fouk o' ilka age and name,

Baith blind an' cripple,

Forgather aft, O fy for shame!

To drink an' tipple.

O Muse, be kind, an' dinna fash us
To flee awa' beyont Parnassus,
Nor seek for Helicon to wash us,

That heath'nish spring;

Wi' Highland whisky scour our hawses, An' gar us sing.