Strong hopes he'll haud oot, e'en when death's past a' doot,

An' words o' sweet comfort the body will gie; Your pulse he will feel, say you're doin' fu' weel, Altho' gaspin' your last, as ilk ane may see.

Sae wheedlin' an' fleichin' lang blethers aye preachin',
Fu' loud his ain trumpet o' skill does he blaw;
For the little he kens, some guid deeds mak' amens,-
Glib-gabbet the body's weel likit by a'.

The rompin' young queans, in their sweet buddin' teens,
He'll flatter an' ca' them a' bonnie an' braw:
When they get to be wives, a' the rest o' their lives
Nae ither man-howdie will they hae ava.

An' if wi' the married a young ane's miscarried,
Or some slight departure frae Nature's great laws,
This marvellous body, wha rides in a noddy,
Will wisdom affect to assign the true cause.

But if wi' some hizzie you've been rather busy,
An' dune the bit job that ye like na to name,
Let that thing no tease ye, but feel unco easy,
He'll sune fin' a cover to hide a' the shame.

An' if wi' high feedin' ye stan' need o' bleedin',
Look out that the fountain itsel' rins na dry:

So first mak' your will, gif ye feel rather ill,

You'll sune be laid snug where your forefathers lie.

He'll sigh deep an' pray wi' young widows, they say,
When loved anes are cauld in their lang dreamless rest;
He'll e'en shed a tear ower a dead husband's bier,
An' tell greetin' frien's that it's a' for the best.

Should bairnies be bokin', wi' hoopin'-cough chokin', An' stranglin', puir wee things! in death's iron grip, This medical body, this shauchlin auld cuddy,

Will look on sae doitit, an' see them aff slip.

This grannie in breeches, wha blisters an' leeches,
An' calomel doses deals oot by the pun',
Will roar in a chorus, an' drink deoch an' dorius,
An' join cantie birkies in a' kinds o' fun.

Wi' chiels i' the clachan, ye'll hear him loud laughin'
In fine simmer nichts as the gloamin' sets in,
When the hairst's dune at kirns, or at kirsnin o' bairns,
He's sure to get fou, and ne'er thinks it a sin.

Wi' the sleek parish priest he will fuddle and feast,
Till stech'd his bit kyte is as stent as a drum:
Aft the twa cronies grit by the ingle-cheek sit,
An' smoke their lang pipes wi' their heads up the lum.

Noo, ye college-bred louns, wi' Latin-pang'd crouns,
Wha aiblins the Iliad o' Homer may read,

Gif ye've gumption to learn, then imprimis discern,
It's no by proud airs that true merits succeed.

Should ye bravely engage wi' Death warfare to wage, Ye only can warsell the carl for a time;

Ye'll gain mair by coaxin' than even-doun boxin', An' gather mair blessings than poets can rhyme.

But should feelins be sere, an' your object be gear,
Be a' body's body that spiers your advice,
Ne'er saucie or huffie, but learn frae Auld Snuffie

To wheedle, an' humbug, and get your ain price.

Lang Moll o' Montrose.

AE ye heard o' that kimmer lang Moll o' Montrose!

HAR

Hae ye heard o' that kimmer lang Moll o' Montrose? Frae a midden she sprung, to a barber's wife rose,

Sic guid luck in this warl had lang Moll o' Montrose.

The barber, puir cuckold, an angel he thocht her,
An angel she micht be if ane there be lievin,
But Mercy in kindness to Saunts never sought her,
For fear she wud deave a' the guid folks in heaven.

Moll's tongue was as long as her ill-shapen shanks,

An' sae foul that pure truth frae its end flew awa; E'en Clootie, wha aince preed her mou in his pranks, Sware sic lips e'en the taste o' a grumphie wud sta.

Brocht up

i' the hielans on soor dook and parritch, An' buik read to boot, she wud puzzle divines, Sac versed was lang Moll in the Scriptures an' carritch, An' a' science frae earth to the Zodiac signs.

She bored a' her friens wi' the creed she had faith in,
Tired patience itsel' wi' her lang clishmaclavers;
She just kent eneugh to tell a' she kent naething,
Save the lees she wud hatch an' bletherskyte havers.

In satins an' velvets she busk'd hersel' finely,

To seem what dame Nature ne'er meant her to be, For braws can ne'er mak gawkie fools look divinely, Wha their betters wud ape o' a guid pedigree.

Were it no she got bairns ye micht doubt her gender,
But sure in that ae thing lang Moll was a woman,
Yet she was a stranger to love, warm and tender,
An' wi' her hale sex had nae feelins in common.

A' her neebors' wee fauts she was sure to fin oot,
An' like mony ithers ever blin' to her ain;
She wnd strongly confirm whar there micht be a doot,
An' whar a' thing was pure she wud sure leave a stain.

Friens' doors were soon steekit an' Moll grew unhappy,
For scandal was food to her ill-scrapit mow;

Busy rumor aft said that she took a wee drappy,
An' sleely wud whisper she gat unco fou.

By ilk ane outlawed, Moll gat lazy an' blacket,
An' wrunkled an' auld wi' despair on her brow;
Her bumps were aye youky, an' losh how she cracket

Nameless cattle that grazed and waxed fat on her pow.