I modestly fu’ fain wad hint it,
     That One—­pound—­one, I sairly want it;
     If wi’ the hizzie down ye sent it,
     It would be kind;
     And while my heart wi’ life-blood dunted,
     I’d bear’t in mind.

     So may the Auld year gang out moanin’
     To see the New come laden, groanin’,
     Wi’ double plenty o’er the loanin’,
     To thee and thine: 
     Domestic peace and comforts crownin’
     The hale design.

Postscript

     Ye’ve heard this while how I’ve been lickit,
     And by fell Death was nearly nickit;
     Grim loon! he got me by the fecket,
     And sair me sheuk;
     But by gude luck I lap a wicket,
     And turn’d a neuk.

     But by that health, I’ve got a share o’t,
     But by that life, I’m promis’d mair o’t,
     My hale and wee, I’ll tak a care o’t,
     A tentier way;
     Then farewell folly, hide and hair o’t,
     For ance and aye!

1796

The Dean Of Faculty

     A New Ballad
     Tune—­“The Dragon of Wantley.”

     Dire was the hate at old Harlaw,
     That Scot to Scot did carry;
     And dire the discord Langside saw
     For beauteous, hapless Mary: 
     But Scot to Scot ne’er met so hot,
     Or were more in fury seen, Sir,
     Than ’twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job,
     Who should be the Faculty’s Dean, Sir.

     This Hal for genius, wit and lore,
     Among the first was number’d;
     But pious Bob, ’mid learning’s store,
     Commandment the tenth remember’d: 
     Yet simple Bob the victory got,
     And wan his heart’s desire,
     Which shews that heaven can boil the pot,
     Tho’ the devil piss in the fire.

     Squire Hal, besides, had in this case
     Pretensions rather brassy;
     For talents, to deserve a place,
     Are qualifications saucy. 
     So their worships of the Faculty,
     Quite sick of merit’s rudeness,
     Chose one who should owe it all, d’ye see,
     To their gratis grace and goodness.

     As once on Pisgah purg’d was the sight
     Of a son of Circumcision,
     So may be, on this Pisgah height,
     Bob’s purblind mental vision—­
     Nay, Bobby’s mouth may be opened yet,
     Till for eloquence you hail him,
     And swear that he has the angel met
     That met the ass of Balaam.

     In your heretic sins may you live and die,
     Ye heretic Eight-and-Tairty! 
     But accept, ye sublime Majority,
     My congratulations hearty. 
     With your honours, as with a certain king,
     In your servants this is striking,
     The more incapacity they bring,
     The more they’re to your liking.

Epistle To Colonel De Peyster