Yet aft a ragged cowte’s been known,

To mak a noble aiver;

So, ye may doucely fill a throne,

For a’ their clish-ma-claver:

There, him at Agincourt wha shone,

Few better were or braver;

And yet, wi funny, queer Sir John,

He was an unco shaver

For monie a day.

For you, right rev’rend Osnaburg,

Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,

Altho a ribban at your lug

Wad been a dress completer:

As ye disown yon paughty dog,

That bears the keys of Peter,

Then swith! an get a wife to hug,

Or trowth, ye’ll stain the mitre

Some luckless day!

Young, royal Tarry-breeks, I learn,

Ye’ve lately come athwart her;

A glorious galley, stem an stern,

Well rigg’d for Venus barter;

But first hang out that she’ll discern

Your hymeneal charter;

Then heave aboard your grapple-airn,

An, large upon her quarter,

Come full that day.

Ye, lastly, bonie blossoms a’,

Ye royal lasses dainty,

Heav’n mak ye guid as weel as braw,

An gie you lads a plenty!

But sneer na British boys awa!

For kings are unco scant ay,

An German gentles are but sma’,

They’re better just than want ay

On onie day.

God bless you a’! consider now,

Ye’re unco muckle dautet;

But ere the course o life be through,

It may be bitter sautet:

An I hae seen their coggie fou,

That yet hae tarrow’t at it,

But or the day was done, I trow,

The laggen they hae clautet

Fu clean that day.

THE FÊTE CHAMPETRE
Tune: Killiecrankie

O, wha will to Saint Stephen’s House,

To do our errands there, man?

O, wha will to Saint Stephen’s House

O, th’ merry lads of Ayr, man?

Or will ye send a man o law?

Or will ye send a sodger?

Or him wha led o’er Scotland a’

The meikle Ursa-Major?

Come, will ye court a noble lord,

Or buy a score o lairds, man?

For Worth and Honour pawn their word.

Their vote shall be Glencaird’s, man?

Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine,

Anither gies them clatter;

Anbank, wha guess’d the ladies’ taste,

He gies a Fête Champetre.

When Love and Beauty heard the news

The gay green-woods amang, man,

Where, gathering flowers, and busking bowers,

They heard the blackbird’s sang, man:

A vow, they seal’d it with a kiss,

Sir Politics to fetter:

As their alone, the patent bliss,

To hold a Fête Champetre.

Then mounted Mirth on gleesome wing,

O’er hill and dale she flew, man;

Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring,

Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man:

She summon’d every social sprite,

That sports by wood or water,

On th’ bonie banks of Ayr to meet,

And keep this Fête Champetre.

Cauld Boreas, wi his boisterous crew

Were bound to stakes like kye, man;

And Cynthia’s car, o silver fu,

Clamb up the starry sky, man:

Reflected beams dwell in the streams,

Or down the current shatter;

The western breeze steals through the trees

To view this Fête Champetre.

How many a robe sae gaily floats,