For weel she trows, that fiends and fairies be
Sent frae the deil to fleetch us to our ill,
That kye hae tint their milk wi' evil ee,

And corn been scowder'd on the glowin' kill.
Oh mock na this, my friends, but rather mourn,
Ye in life's brawest spring, wi' reason clear;
Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return,

And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly fear;
The mind's aye cradled when the grave is near.

Yet thrift, industrious, bides her latest days, Though age her sair-dow'd front wi' runkles wave; Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays,

Her e'enin' stent reels she as weel's the lave.
On some feast-day, the wee things buskit braw,
Shall heeze her heart up wi' a silent joy,

Fu' cadgie that her head was up and saw
Her ain spun cleedin' on a darling oye,
Careless tho' death should mak the feast her foy.

In its auld lerroch yet the deas remains,

Where the gudeman aft streeks him at his ease; A warm and canny lean for weary banes

O' labourers dyolt upon the weary leas.
Round him will baudrons and the collie come,
To wag their tail, and cast a thankfu' ee
To him wha kindly throws them mony a crum
O' kebbuck whang'd, and dainty fadge, to pree;
This a' the boon they crave, and a' the fee.

Frae him the lads their mornin' counsel tak-
What stacks he wants to thrash, what rigs to till;
How big a birn maun lie on Bassie's back,

For meal and mu'ter to the thirlin' mill.
Neist, the gudewife her hirelin' damsels bids
Glow'r through the byre, and see the hawkies
bound;

Tak tent, case Crummy tak her wonted tids,

And ca' the laiglen's treasure on the ground;
Whilk spills a kebbuck nice, or yellow pound.

Then a' the house for sleep begin to grien,
Their joints to slack frae industry a while;
The leaden god fa's heavy on their een,

And hafflins steeks them frae their daily toil;
The cruizy, too, can only blink and bleer,

The reistit ingle's done the maist it dow;
Tacksman and cottar eke to bed maun steer,
Upon the cod to clear their drumly pow,
Till waken'd by the dawnin's ruddy glow.

Peace to the husbandman, and a' his tribe,
Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to year;
Lang may his sock and cou'ter turn the glebe,

And banks o' corn bend down wi' laded ear.
May Scotia's simmers aye look gay and green;
Her yellow hairsts frae scowry blasts decreed!
May a' her tenants sit fu' snug and bien,

Frae the hard grips o' ails and poortith freed, And a lang lasting train o' peacefu' hours succeed!

CALLER OYSTERS.

Happy the man who, free from care and strife,
In silken or in leathern purse retains
A splendid shilling. He nor hears with pain
New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale.

Or a' the waters that can hobble
A fishin' yole or sa'mon coble,
And can reward the fisher's trouble,
Or south or north,

-Phillips.

There's nane sae spacious and sae noble,
As Frith o' Forth.

In her the skate and codlin sail;
The eel, fu' souple, wags her tail;
Wi' herrin', fleuk, and mackarel,
And whitens dainty;

Their spindle-shanks the labsters trail,
Wi' partans plenty.

Auld Reekie's sons blythe faces wear;
September's merry month is near,
That brings in Neptune's caller cheer,
New oysters fresh;

The halesomest and nicest gear
O' fish or flesh.

O! then, we needna gie a plack
For dand'rin mountebank or quack,
Wha o' their drogs sae bauldly crack,
And spread sic notions,

As gar their feckless patients tak
Their stinkin' potions.

Come, prie, frail man! for gin thou art sick,
The oyster is a rare cathartic,

As ever doctor patient gart lick

To cure his ails;

Whether you hae the head or heart ache,
It never fails.

Ye tipplers! open a' your poses;
Ye wha are fash'd wi' ploukie noses;
Fling owre your craig sufficient doses;
You'll thole a hunder,

To fleg awa your simmer roses,
And naething under.

When big as burns the gutters rin,
If ye hae catch'd a droukit skin,
To Luckie Middlemist's* loup in,
And sit fu' snug

Owre oysters and a dram o' gin,
Or haddock lug.

When auld Saunt Giles, at aught o'clock,
Gars merchant louns their shopies lock,

* A famous oyster-tavern of Fergusson's time, situated in the Cowgate, where it is now crossed by the South Bridge.

There we adjourn wi' hearty fouk
To birle our bodles,

And get wharewi' to crack our joke,
And clear our noddles.

When Phoebus did his winnocks steek,
How aften at that ingle cheek
Did I my frosty fingers beek,
And prie gude fare!

I trow, there was nae hame to seek,
When stechin there.

While glaikit fools, owre rife o' cash,
Pamper their wames wi' fousome trash,
I think a chiel' may gaily pass,
He's no ill boden,

That gusts his gab wi' oyster-sauce,
And hen weel sodden.

At Musselbrough, and eke Newhaven,
The fisherwives will get top livin',
When lads gang out on Sundays' even
To treat their joes,

And tak o' fat Pandores * a prieven,
Or mussel brose.

Then, sometimes, ere they flit their doup,
They'll aiblins a' their siller coup,
For liquor clear frae cutty stoup,
To weet their wizen,

And swallow owre a dainty soup,
For fear they gizzen.

A' ye wha canna stand sae sicker,

When twice you've toom'd the big-ars'd bicker,
Mix caller oysters wi' your liquor,
And I'm your debtor,

If greedy priest or drouthy vicar
Will thole it better.

*A certain favourite kind of oysters.

BRAID CLAITH.

YE wha are fain to hae your name
Wrote in the bonnie book o' fame,
Let merit nae pretension claim
To laurell'd wreath,

But hap ye weel baith back and wame,
In gude braid claith.

He that some ells o' this may fa',*
And slae-black hat on pow like snaw,
Bids bauld to bear the gree awa,
Wi' a' this graith,

When bienly clad wi' shell fu' braw
O' gude braid claith.

This line, as Dr. Grosart points out, elucidates an expression in Burns which is somewhat obscure, if left unexplained, as it very often is. The word "fa'," at the end, evidently means possess. Burns, in his noble song of "Honest Poverty," says

"A king may mak' a belted knight,

A marquis, duke, an' a' that;

But an honest man's aboon his might,
Gude faith, he mauna fa' that."

Has the same word again the same meaning? Some say yes, some say no. In Wood's Songs of Scotland, edited by George Farquhar Graham, the following explanation is given :-"The meaning of the expression 'he mauna fa' that,' is obscure. Jamieson's Dictionary does not explain the phrase, though the line is given. In common glossaries to Burns, the word 'fa'' is explained by fall, lot. Neither of these would make sense in Burns' line. Try, attempt, venture, is evidently the only satisfactory meaning of 'fa' in that place. The expression occurs long before Burns' poetizing days, in the old song beginning Tho' Geordie reigns in Jamie's stead.' See the second volume of Ritson's Scottish Songs, page 104

The whigs think a' that weal is won,

But faith they ma'na' fa' that.'

Or, as Hogg, in the second series of his Jacobite Relics, page 56, gives it, maunna fa' that.' Here the phrase is equally obscure as in Burns' song, but the meaning seems to be they must not venture to believe that.""