The gowdspink that sae lang has kenn'd
The happy sweets (his wonted friends),
Her sad confinement ill can brook
In some dark chamber's dowie nook.
Though Mary's hand his neb supplies,
Unkenn'd to hunger's painfu' cries,
Even beauty canna cheer the heart
Frae life, frae liberty apart;
For now we tyne its wonted lay,
Sae lightsome sweet, sae blythely gay.
Thus, Fortune aft a curse can gie,
To wile us far frae liberty;

Then tent her syren smiles wha list,
I'll ne'er envy your girnel's grist:
For when fair freedom smiles nae mair,
Care I for life? Shame fa' the hair;
A field o'ergrown wi' rankest stubble,
The essence of a paltry bubble!

CALLER WATER.

WHEN father Adie first put spade in
The bonnie yard o' ancient Eden,

His amry had nae liquor laid in
To fire his mou';

Nor did he thole his wife's upbraidin',
For bein' fou.

A caller burn o' siller sheen,

Ran cannily out-owre the green;

And when our gutcher's drouth had been
To bide right sair,

He loutit down, and drank bedeen
A dainty skair.

His bairns had 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' drinkin' wine.

The fuddlin' bardies, now-a-days,
Rin maukin-mad in Bacchus' praise;
And limp and stoiter through 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 jillet ye might blame
For thinkin' on't,

When eithly she can find the theme
O' aquafont.

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 you roose
Their want o' skill.

But we'll hae nae sic clitter-clatter;
And, briefly to expound the matter,
It shall be ca'd gude caller water;
Than whilk, I trow,

Few drugs in doctor's shops are better
For me or you.

Though joints be stiff as ony rung,
Your pith wi' pain be sairly dung,
Be you in caller water flung

Out-owre the lugs,

'Twill mak you souple, swack, and young, Withouten drugs.

Though 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.

Were't no for it, the bonnie lasses
Wad glow'r nae mair in keekin'-glasses;
And soon tyne dint o' a' the graces
That aft conveen,

In gleefu' looks, and bonnie faces,
To catch our een.

The fairest, then, might die a maid,
And Cupid quit his shootin' trade;
For wha, through clarty masquerade,
Could then discover

Whether the features under shade
Were worth a lover?

As simmer rains bring simmer flowers,
And leaves to cleed the birken bowers,
Sae beauty gets by caller showers
Sae rich a bloom,

As for estate, or heavy dowers,

Aft stand in room.

What maks Auld Reekie's dames sae fair?

It canna be the halesome air;

But caller burn, beyond compare,
The best o' onie,

That

gars them a' sic graces skair,

And blink sae bonnie.

On Mayday, in a fairy ring,

We've seen them round St. Anthon's spring,*

* St. Anthony's Well, a beautiful small spring, on Arthur's Seat, near Edinburgh, and a favourite resort of the youth of the city for the purpose of gathering May dew, as described.

Frae grass the caller dew-draps wring
To weet their een,

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!
Then 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 hight,
Cowers near the yird wi' blinkin' light;*
Cauld shaw the haughs, nae mair bedight
Wi' simmer's claes,

Which heese the heart o' dowie wight
That through them gaes.

Weel leese me o' you, business, now;
For ye'll weet mony a drouthy mou,
That's lang a-gizzenin gane for you,
Withouten fill

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

The Court o' Session, weel wat I,
Pits ilk chiel's whittle i' the pie;
Can criesh the slaw-gaun wheels when dry,
Till Session's done;

Though they'll gie mony a cheep and cry,
Or twalt o' June.

*The Court of Session was then opened for the winter term on the 12th of November.

Ye benders a', that dwall in joot,
You'll tak your liquor clean cap out;
Synd your mouse-webs wi' reemin' stout,
While ye hae cash,

And gar your cares a' tak the rout,
And thumb ne'er fash.

Rob Gibb's * grey gizz, new frizzled fine,
Will white as ony snaw-ba' shine;
Weel does he lo'e the lawen coin,
When dossied down,

For whisky gills, or dribs o' wine,
In cauld forenoon.

Bar-keepers, now at outer door,

Tak tent as fouk gang back and fore;
The fient ane there but pays his score;
Nane wins toll-free;

Though ye've a cause the house before,
Or agent be.

Gin ony here wi' canker knocks,
And hasna lowsed his siller pocks,
Ye needna think to fleetch or cox;
"Come, shaw's your gear:
Ae scabbit yowe spills twenty flocks;
Ye'se no be here."

Now, at the door, they'll raise a plea;
Crack on, my lads! for flytin's free;
For gin ye should tongue-tackit be,
The mair's the pity,

When scaudin but and ben we see,
Pendente lite.

*The keeper of a tavern in the Outer House, as the old Parliament Hall of Edinburgh is denominated, to distinguish it from the Inner House, where the fifteen lords sat in judgment. This Outer House, like Westminster Hall in old times, was then partly occupied by a range of little shops.-Robert Chambers.