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How she serv'd—and toil'd—and fever'd,
Lost her health, and syne her bread;
How that grief, whan scarce recover'd,
Took her brain, and turn'd her head!

How she wander'd round the county
Mony a live-lang night her lane !
Till at last an angel's bounty

Brought her senses back again :

Gae her meat—and claise—and siller;
Gae her bairnies wark and lear;
Lastly, gae this cot-house till her,
Wi' four sterling pounds a year.

Willie, harkening, wip'd his ein aye;
"Oh! what sins hae I to rue!
But say, wha's this angel, Jeanie?"
'Wha,' quo' Jeanie, 'but-Buccleugh!*

Here, supported, cheer'd, and cherish'd,
Nine blest months, I've liv'd, and mair;
Seen these infants clad and nourish'd;
Dried my tears; and tint despair;

Sometimes serving, sometimes spinning,
Light the lanesome hours gae round;
Lightly, too, ilk quarter rinning
Brings yon angel's helping pound!'

"Eight pounds mair,' cried Willie, fondly, 'Eight pounds mair will do nae harm!

* The Dutchess of Buccleugh, the unwearied patroness and supporter of the afflicted and the poor.

And, O Jean! gin friends ware kindly, Eight pounds soon might stock a farm.

There, ance mair, to thrive by plewin, Freed frae a' that peace destroys, Idle waste and drunken ruin!

War and a' its murdering joys!'

Thrice he kiss'd his lang lost treasure! Thrice ilk bairn; but cou'dna speak; Tears o' luve, and hope, and pleasure Stream'd in silence down his cheek!

TO C. L. ESQ.

WITH A PRESENT OF A LARGE BOTTLE OF OLD JAMAICA

RUM.

DEAR honest hearted, canty Charlie!
To whom I'd trust baith late and earlie;
Accept, in token o' regard,

Frae rhyming Mac, your friend and bard,
A gift to raise on Sunday's even

Your mind frae earthly thoughts to heaven;
Or what's far mair, to keep frae quaking
Thy graceless saul for Sunday-breaking,
As reckless ay o' prayer or kirk
Ye ply your sinfu' wark till mirk,
Grunting owre deeds o' black rascality
In Session Courts and Admirality;
Till tir'd o' horning and memorial,

Ye turn frae tricks to things corporeal;
For lang law draughts, take ane that's shorter,
(I mean a draught o' Skae's good porter ;)
For desperate debts and pleas unlucky,
Sit down and carve your roasted chucky,
And helping round ilk friend and cousin
That mak, at least, a round half dozen,
Wi' crack-and joke—and steeve rum toddy,
Lord! but ye turn a dainty body!

Now Charles, without a Sunday's blessing,
Wi' a' your want o' Sunday's dressing;
Wi' hair unkaim'd, and beard unshorn,
And slip-shod bachles, auld, and torn,
Coat, that nae decent man wad put on,
And waistcoat aft without a button,
And breeks (let sans culottes defend them)
I hope in God, ye'll change, or-mend them.
I say, wi' a' these black transgressions,

(The fruits o' your curst courts and sessions)
There's yet sic sparks o' grace about you;
Sic radiant truth that shines throughout you;
Sic friendship firm;-sic qualms o' honour
Whan sneaking rascals mak you sconner,
That ('pon my faith! I canna help it,
Though for't ilk time I should be skelpit)
I find a secret, inward greeting
O' peace at ilka Sunday meeting;
And feel-ye hash, wi' a' your duds on,
For you attractions like a loadstone;
That warm the heart wi' glows diviner
Than e'er I find for chiels that's finer.

Come, Charlie, then, my friend and brither!
Whan neist wi' a' convene thegither
To crack and joke in converse happy,
I' faith! we'se hae a hearty drappy;

And though I dinna like to buckle
Wi' hours owre late, or drink owre muckle,
Nor think it a' thegither right

To keep folk up on Sunday night,
I am resolv'd, be't right or sinfu’;
To hae at least a decent skinfu' ;

Wi' heart and band keep friendship waking
And trust to heaven for Sunday-breaking.
And sure if bounteous heaven tak pleasure
In harmless mirth, and social leisure,
And grant us aye the power to borrow
Some thoughtless hours to banish sorrow,
To crack, and laugh, and drink, nae sin is
Wi' modest worth and Jeanie I-
-S;
After Sunday's feast-or pascal
Wi' you, ye kirkless canty rascal.

Mind then, whan honest trusty Peter*
(Aboon a' praise in prose or metre)
Removes ilk dish, whar late, fu' dainty,
Stood roasted hen, and collops plenty;
And roddickins, and penches too,
And mussels picked nice wi' broo;
And haddies caller at last carting,
Or rizzer'd sweet by Mrs. Martin!
-Wi' kipper (brander'd het and broun)
A present sent frae Stirling town.
I say, when Pate wi' solemn face,
Removes ilk thing wi' steddy pace,
And brings the reeking burn and bowl
To cheer ilk presbyterian soul;†
Whan ance that ye, a' fidging fain
Draw the first cork wi' mony a grane,
And sometimes girning, sometimes blawin,
Examine gin its rightly drawn.

Whan three times round the port wine passes
And ilka friend has drank three glasses;

An old man servant.

+ The Sunday supper was called the Presbyterian supper.

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