| |
| PHOEBUS, sair cow’d wi’ simmer’s hight, | |
| Cours near the yird wi’ blinking light; | |
| Cauld shaw the haughs, nae mair bedight | |
| Wi’ simmer’s claes. | |
| They heeze the heart o’ dowy wight | 5 |
| That thro’ them gaes. | |
| |
| Weel lo’es me o’ you, business, now; | |
| For ye’ll weet mony a drouthy mou’; | |
| That’s lang a eisning gane for you. | |
| Withouten fill | 10 |
| O’ dribbles frae the gude brown cow, | |
| Or Highland gill. | |
| |
| The Court o’ Session, weel wat I, | |
| Pitts ilk chiel’s whittle i’ the pye, | |
| Can criesh the slaw-gaun wheels whan dry, | 15 |
| Till Session’s done, | |
| Tho’ they’ll gie mony a cheep and cry | |
| Or twalt o’ June. | |
| |
| Ye benders a’, that dwall in joot, | |
| You’ll tak your liquor clean cap out, | 20 |
| Synd your mouse-wabbs wi’ reaming stout, | |
| While ye ha’e cash, | |
| And gar your cares a’ tak the rout, | |
| An’ thumb ne’er fash. | |
| |
| Rob Gibb’s grey gizz, new frizzl’d fine, | 25 |
| Will white as ony snaw-ba’ shine; | |
| Weel does he lo’e the lawen coin | |
| Whan dossied down, | |
| For whisky gills or dribbs of wine | |
| In cauld forenoon. | 30 |
| |
| Bar-keepers now, at outer door, | |
| Tak tent as fock gang back and fore; | |
| The fient ane there but pays his score, | |
| Nane wins toll-free, | |
| Tho’ ye’ve a cause the house before, | 35 |
| Or agent be. | |
| |
| Gin ony here wi’ canker knocks, | |
| And has na lous’d his siller pocks, | |
| Ye need na think to fleetch or cox; | |
| ‘Come, shaw’s your gear; | 40 |
| Ae scabbit yew spills twenty flocks, | |
| Ye’s no be here.’ | |
| |
| Now at the door they’ll raise a plea; | |
| Crack on, my lads!—for flyting’s free; | |
| For gin ye shou’d tongue-tacket be, | 45 |
| The mair’s the pity, | |
| Whan scalding but and ben we see | |
| Pendente lite. | |
| |
| The lawyer’s skelfs, and printer’s presses, | |
| Grain unco sair wi’ weighty cases; | 50 |
| The clark in toil his pleasure places, | |
| To thrive bedeen; | |
| At five-hour’s bell scribes shaw their faces, | |
| And rake their ein. | |
| |
| The country fock to lawyers crook, | 55 |
| ‘Ah! Weels me on your bonny buik! | |
| The benmost part o’ my kist nook | |
| I’ll ripe for thee, | |
| And willing ware my hindmost rook | |
| For my decree.’ | 60 |
| |
| But Law’s a draw-well unco deep, | |
| Withouten rim fock out to keep; | |
| A donnart chiel, whan drunk, may dreep | |
| Fu’ sleely in, | |
| But finds the gate baith stay and steep, | 65 |
| Ere out he win. | |
| |
