There’s naething like the honest nappy;
     Whare’ll ye e’er see men sae happy,
     Or women sonsie, saft an’ sappy,
     ’Tween morn and morn,
     As them wha like to taste the drappie,
     In glass or horn?

     I’ve seen me dazed upon a time,
     I scarce could wink or see a styme;
     Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime,—­
     Ought less is little—­
     Then back I rattle on the rhyme,
     As gleg’s a whittle.

The Holy Fair^1

     A robe of seeming truth and trust
     Hid crafty Observation;
     And secret hung, with poison’d crust,
     The dirk of Defamation: 

     [Footnote 1:  “Holy Fair” is a common phrase in the west of Scotland
      for a sacramental occasion.—­R.  B.]

     A mask that like the gorget show’d,
     Dye-varying on the pigeon;
     And for a mantle large and broad,
     He wrapt him in Religion. 
     Hypocrisy A-La-Mode

     Upon a simmer Sunday morn
     When Nature’s face is fair,
     I walked forth to view the corn,
     An’ snuff the caller air. 
     The rising sun owre Galston muirs
     Wi’ glorious light was glintin;
     The hares were hirplin down the furrs,
     The lav’rocks they were chantin
     Fu’ sweet that day.

     As lightsomely I glowr’d abroad,
     To see a scene sae gay,
     Three hizzies, early at the road,
     Cam skelpin up the way. 
     Twa had manteeles o’ dolefu’ black,
     But ane wi’ lyart lining;
     The third, that gaed a wee a-back,
     Was in the fashion shining
     Fu’ gay that day.

     The twa appear’d like sisters twin,
     In feature, form, an’ claes;
     Their visage wither’d, lang an’ thin,
     An’ sour as only slaes: 
     The third cam up, hap-stap-an’-lowp,
     As light as ony lambie,
     An’ wi’a curchie low did stoop,
     As soon as e’er she saw me,
     Fu’ kind that day.

     Wi’ bonnet aff, quoth I, “Sweet lass,
     I think ye seem to ken me;
     I’m sure I’ve seen that bonie face
     But yet I canna name ye.” 
     Quo’ she, an’ laughin as she spak,
     An’ taks me by the han’s,
     “Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck
     Of a’ the ten comman’s
     A screed some day.”

     “My name is Fun—­your cronie dear,
     The nearest friend ye hae;
     An’ this is Superstitution here,
     An’ that’s Hypocrisy. 
     I’m gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,
     To spend an hour in daffin: 
     Gin ye’ll go there, yon runkl’d pair,
     We will get famous laughin
     At them this day.”

     Quoth I, “Wi’ a’ my heart, I’ll do’t;
     I’ll get my Sunday’s sark on,
     An’ meet you on the holy spot;
     Faith, we’se hae fine remarkin!”
     Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time,
     An’ soon I made me ready;
     For roads were clad, frae side to side,
     Wi’ mony a weary body
     In droves that day.