O ye whaare sae guidyoursel', Sae pious and saeholy, Ye've nought to do but markand tell Your neibours' fauts and folly! Whaselife is like a weel-gaunmill, Supplied wi' store o' water; The heaped happer's ebbing still, An'still the clapplays clatter. Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals That frequent pass douceWisdom's door

My curse upon your venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gums alang, An' thro' my luggies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance, Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines! When fevers burn, or argues freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or colics squeezes, Our neibor's sympathy can ease us, Wi'pitying moan; Butthee-thou hell o' a' diseases-

Edina! Scotia's darling seat! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once, beneath a Monarch's feet, Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs: From marking wildly scatt'red flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in they honour'd shade. Here Wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy Trade

Fair fa'your honest, sonsieface, Great chieftain o' the pudding-race! Aboonthem a' yet tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weelare ye wordyo'a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdieslike a distant hill, Your pin was help to mend a mill In time o'need, While thro' your pores the dews

Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours, Unskaithedby hunger'd Highland boors; Lord grant me nae duddie, desperate beggar, Wi' dirk, claymore, and rusty trigger, May twinauldScotland o' a life She likes-as butchers like a knife. Faith you and Applecross were right To keep the Highland hounds in sight: I doubt na! they wadbidnae better,