AIR. TUNE-Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses. See the smoking bowl before us, CHORUS. A fig for those by law protected! What is title? what is treasure? If we lead a life of pleasure, With the ready trick and fable, Does the train-attended carriage Through the country lighter rove? Does the sober bed of marriage Life is all a variorum, We regard not how it goes; Let them cant about decorum Who have characters to lose. A fig, etc. Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets! A fig for those by law protected! Courts for cowards were erected, trulls Churches built to please the priest.1 1 "In one or two passages of the Jolly Beggars, the Muse has slightly trespassed on decorum, where, in the language of Scottish song 'High kilted was she, As she gaed owre the lea.' Something, however, is to be allowed to the nature of the subject, and something to the education of the poet; and if from veneration to the names of Swift and Dryden, we tolerate the grossness of the one and the indelicacy of the other, the respect due to that of Burns may surely claim indulgence for a few light strokes of broad humour."- SIR WALTER SCOTT. TO JAMES SMITH. "Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul! I owe thee much!"- BLAIR. DEAR Smith, the slee'est, paukie thief cunning That e'er attempted stealth or rief, Ye surely hae some warlock-breef Owre human hearts; robbery spell For ne'er a bosom yet was prief proof For me, I swear by sun and moon, And every ither pair that's done, Mair ta'en I'm wi' you. That auld capricious carlin, Nature, And in her freaks, on every feature She's wrote, the Man. twinkles stinted Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme, Wi' hasty summon : Hae ye a leisure moment's time, To hear what's comin'? yeasty fermented Some rhyme a neighbour's name to lash; Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash; Some rhyme to court the country clash, And raise a din; For me, an aim I never fash I rhyme for fun. The star that rules my luckless lot, And d-d my fortune to the groat; Has blest me wi' a random shot This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, I red you, honest man, tak tent! There's ither poets much your betters, Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, gossip care for bent Gently warn skilled Hae thought they had insured their debtors Now moths deform, in shapeless tatters, Then farewell hopes o' laurel-boughs, Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs Are whistling thrang, thick And teach the lanely heights and howes hollows My rustic sang. I'll wander on, with tentless need I'll lay me with the inglorious dead, But why o' death begin a tale? And large before Enjoyment's gale, Let's tak the tide. This life, sae far's I understand, Where Pleasure is the magic wand, That, wielded right, |