Afton’s Laird!  Afton’s Laird, when your pen can be spared,
     A copy of this I bequeath,
     On the same sicker score as I mention’d before,
     To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith,
     Afton’s Laird!  To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith.

Sonnet On Receiving A Favour

     10 Aug., 1979.

     Addressed to Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintry.

     I call no Goddess to inspire my strains,
     A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns: 
     Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns,
     And all the tribute of my heart returns,
     For boons accorded, goodness ever new,
     The gifts still dearer, as the giver you. 
     Thou orb of day! thou other paler light! 
     And all ye many sparkling stars of night! 
     If aught that giver from my mind efface,
     If I that giver’s bounty e’er disgrace,
     Then roll to me along your wand’rig spheres,
     Only to number out a villain’s years! 
     I lay my hand upon my swelling breast,
     And grateful would, but cannot speak the rest.

Extemporaneous Effusion

     On being appointed to an Excise division.

     Searching auld wives’ barrels,
     Ochon the day! 
     That clarty barm should stain my laurels: 
     But—­what’ll ye say? 
     These movin’ things ca’d wives an’ weans,
     Wad move the very hearts o’ stanes!

Song—­Willie Brew’d A Peck O’ Maut^1

     O Willie brew’d a peck o’ maut,
     And Rob and Allen cam to see;
     Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night,
     Ye wadna found in Christendie.

     Chorus.—­We are na fou, we’re nae that fou,
     But just a drappie in our ee;
     The cock may craw, the day may daw
     And aye we’ll taste the barley bree.

     Here are we met, three merry boys,
     Three merry boys I trow are we;
     And mony a night we’ve merry been,
     And mony mae we hope to be! 
     We are na fou, &c.

     It is the moon, I ken her horn,
     That’s blinkin’ in the lift sae hie;
     She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
     But, by my sooth, she’ll wait a wee! 
     We are na fou, &c.

     Wha first shall rise to gang awa,
     A cuckold, coward loun is he! 
     Wha first beside his chair shall fa’,
     He is the King amang us three. 
     We are na fou, &c.

     [Footnote 1:  Willie is Nicol, Allan is Masterton the writing—­
     master.  The scene is between Moffat and the head of the Loch of
     the Lowes.  Date, August—­September, 1789.—­Lang.]

Ca’ The Yowes To The Knowes

     Chorus.—­Ca’ the yowes to the knowes,
     Ca’ them where the heather grows,
     Ca’ them where the burnie rowes,
     My bonie dearie