CALLER WATER.

WHAN father Adie first pat spade in
The bonny yeard o' ancient Eden,
His amry had nae liquor laid in

To fire his mou',

Nor did he thole his wife's upbraidin

For being fou.

A caller burn o' siller sheen,

Ran cannily out owr the green,

And whan our gutcher's drouth had been To Bide right sair,

He loutit down and drank bedeen

A dainty skair.

His bairns håd a' before the flood
A 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.

S

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

While ilk his sea of wine displays

As big's the Pontic.

My Muse will nae gae far frae hame, Or scour a' airths to hound for fame; In troth the jillet ye might blame

For thinking on't,

Whan aithly 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 ye roose

Their want o' skill.

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

Than whilk I trow, Few drugs in doctor shops are better For me or you.

Tho' joints be stiff as ony rùng, Your pith wi' pain be sairly dung, in Caller Water flung,

Be you

Out o'er the lugs,

Twill mak ye suple, swack and young,
Withouten drugs.

Tho' cholic or the heart-scad teaze us,
Or ony inward dwaam should seize us,
It masters a' sic fell diseases,

That would ye spulzie,

And brings them to a canny crisis

Wi' little tulzie.

Wer't na for it the bonny lasses
Wou'd glow'r nae mair in keeking glasses,
And soon tine din't o' a' the graces

That aft conveen

In gleefu' looks and bonny faces,

To catch our ein.

The fairest than might die a maid,
And Cupid quit his shooting trade,
For wha thro' clarty masquerade

Could then discover,

Whether the features under shade

Were worth a lover?

As simmer rains bring simmer flow'rs,
And leaves to cleed the birken bow'rs,
Sae beauty gets by caller show'rs,

Sae rich a bloom,

As for estate, or heavy dow'rs,

Aft stands in room.

What maks Auld Reikie's dames sae fair?

It cannot be the halesome air,

But caller burn beyond compare,

The best o' ony,

That gars them a' sic graces skair,

And blink sae bonny.

On May-day, in a fairy ring,

We've seen them round St. Anthon's spring, Frae grass the caller dew-draps wring,

To weet their ein,

And water clear as crystal spring,

To synd them clean.

O may they still pursue the way,
To look sae feat, sae clean, sae gay!
Than shall their beauties glance like May,

And, like her, be

The Goddess of the vocal spray,

The Muse and me.

THE

SITTING OF THE SESSION.

PHOEBUS, sair cow'd wi' simmer's height, Cours near the YIRD Wi' blinking light; Cauld shaw the haughs, nae mair bedight Wi' simmer's claes,

They heeze the heart o' dowy wight

That thro' them gaes.

Weel loes me o' you, BUSINESS, now;
For ye'll weet mony a drouthy mou'
That's lang a eisning gane for you,

Withouten fill

O' dribles frae the gude brown cow,
Or Highland gill.

The COURT O' SESSION, weel wat I,
Pits ilk chield's whittle i' the pye,

Can criesh the slaw-gaun wheels whan dry

Till Session's done,

Tho' they'll gie mony a cheap and cry

Or twalt o' June.