the passionateness of youth. His range of subjects is narrowed by the narrow space of a career which began at twenty-one and was finished at twenty-four. He had a keen enjoyment of city life, with its clubs for a little dissipation, and its bailies and its 'black banditti' for a constant occasion of laughter. Still more keen on his part was that enjoyment of the country, the pleasures of which he seldom tasted except in imagination, but which supplies the inspiration of some of his most touching verses, as well as of some of his admirable mock heroics. We alternate in his verse between these two sets of themes, and in his treatment of both we meet with the same vein of pure pathos, and its almost unfailing accompaniment of genuine humour.

JOHN SERVICE.

THE DAFT DAYS.

[Corresponding in Scotland to Christmas holidays in England.]

Now mirk' December's dowie face

3

Glowrs owr the rigs wi' sour grimace,
While, thro' his minimum of space,
The bleer-ey'd sun,

Wi' blinkin light and stealing pace,
His race doth run.

From naked groves nae birdie sings;
To shepherd's pipe nae hillock rings;
The breeze nae od'rous flavour brings
From Borean cave;

4

And dwyning Nature droops her wings,
Wi' visage grave.

Mankind but scanty pleasure glean
Frae snawy hill or barren plain,
Whan Winter, 'midst his nipping train,
Wi' frozen spear,

Sends drift owr a' his bleak domain,

And guides the weir3.

7

Auld Reikie! thou 'rt the canty hole,

8

9

A bield for mony caldrife soul,
Wha snugly at thine ingle loll,

Baith warm and couth 10
While round they gar the bicker" roll
To weet their mouth.

When merry Yule-day comes, I trow,
You'll scantlins find a hungry mou;
Sma' are our cares, our stamacks fu'
O' gusty gear 13,

12

And kickshaws, strangers to our view,

;

•Edinburgh. 11 wooden goblet.

'brewer.

Ye browster' wives! now busk ye bra,
And fling your sorrows far awa';
Then, come and gie's the tither blaw
Of reaming ale,

Mair precious than the Well of Spa,
Our hearts to heal.

Then, tho' at odds wi' a' the warl',
Amang oursells we'll never quarrel;
Tho' Discord gie a canker'd snarl
To spoil our glee,

As lang's there's pith into the barrel
We'll drink and 'gree.

Fiddlers! your pins in temper fix,
And roset weel your fiddlesticks,

5

But banish vile Italian tricks

From out your quorum,

Nor fortes wi' pianos mix

Gie's Tullochgorum®.

For nought can cheer the heart sae weel

As can a canty Highland reel;

It even vivifies the heel

To skip and dance:

Lifeless is he wha canna feel

Its influence.

Let mirth abound; let social cheer
Invest the dawning of the year;
Let blithesome innocence appear
To crown our joy;

Nor envy, wi' sarcastic sneer,

Our bliss destroy.

And thou, great god of aqua vitæ!

Wha sways the empire of this city-
When fou we're sometimes capernoity -
Be thou prepar'd

To hedge us frae that black banditti,

'jorum.

The City Guard.

foaming.

pegs.

7

rosin.

'Printed four years before Skinner's 'Tullochgorum' (p. 491). ' ill-tempered

BRAID CLAITH.

Ye wha are fain to hae your name
Wrote in the bonny book of fame,
Let merit nae pretension claim

To laurel'd wreath,

But hap1 ye weel, baith back and wame,
In gude Braid Claith.

4

He that some ells o' this may fa',
An' slae-black hat on pow like snaw,
Bids bauld to bear the gree' awa',
Wi' a' this graith',

8

Whan bienly clad wi' shell fu' braw

O' gude Braid Claith.

Waesuck for him wha has nae fek o't!

11

For he's a gowk 10 they're sure to geck at,
A chield that ne'er will be respekit

While he draws breath,

Till his four quarters are bedeckit
Wi' gude Braid Claith.

On Sabbath-days the barber spark,
Whan he has done wi' scrapin wark,
Wi' siller broachie in his sark 12,

Gangs trigly, faith!

Or to the Meadow or the Park,

In gude Braid Claith.

Weel might ye trow, to see them there,
That they to shave your haffits 13 bare,
Or curl an' sleek a pickle 1 hair,

14

Wud be right laith 15

When pacing wi' a gawsy air 1 16

In gude Braid Claith.

If ony mettled stirrah1 grien'
For favour frae a lady's ein,
He mauna care for being seen
Before he sheath

His body in a scabbard clean

O' gude Braid Claith.

For gin he comes wi' coat thread-bare,

4

A feg for him she winna care,

But crook her bony mou' fu' sair,

An' scald him baith.

Wooers shou'd ay their travel" spare
Without Braid Claith.

Braid Claith lends fouk an unco heese?
Makes mony kail-worms butter-flies,
Gies mony a doctor his degrees

For little skaith":

In short, you may be what you please
Wi' gude Braid Claith.

For thof ye had as wise a snout on,
As Shakespeare or Sir Isaac Newton,
Your judgment fouk wud hae a doubt on,
I'll tak' my aith,

Till they cou'd see ye wi' a suit on
O' gude Braid Claith.

FROM CALLER WATER.'

Whan father Adie' first pat spade in
The bonny yeard 10 of antient Eden "
His amry 12 had nae liquor laid in,
To fire his mou',

Nor did he thole 13 his wife's upbraidin'

'Langsyne in Eden's bonny yard.'-Burns' Address to the Deil.

12 cupboard.