Next day each hero tells his news
O' crackit crowns and broken brows,
And deeds that here forbid the Muse
Her theme to swell,

Or time mair precious abuse

Their crimes to tell.

She'll rather to the fields resort,
Whare music gars the day seem short,
Whare doggies play, and lammies sport
On gowany braes,

Whare peerless Fancy hauds her court,
And tunes her lays.

1

CALLER OYSTERS.

Happy the man, who, free from care and strife,
In silken or in leathern purse retains

A splendid shilling. He nor hears with pain
New oysters cry'd, nor sighs for cheerful ale.

PHILLIPS.

O'A' the waters that can hobble,
A fishing yole or sa'mon coble,

And can reward the fisher's trouble,

Or south or north,

There's nane sae spacious and sae noble,

As Firth o' Forth.

In her the skate and codlin sail;
The eel, fu' souple, wags her tail;
Wi' herrin, fleuk, and mackarel,

And whytens dainty:

Their spindleshanks the labsters trail,

Wi' partans plenty.

Auld Reikie's sons blythe faces wear;
September's merry month is near,
That brings in Neptune's caller cheer,
New oysters fresh ;

The halesomest and nicest gear
O' fish or flesh.

O! then we needna gie a plack
For dand'ring mountebank or quack,
Wha o' their drogs sae bauldly crack,

An' spread sic notions,

As gar their feckless patients tak

Their stinking potions.

Come, prie, frail man! for gin thou art sick, The oyster is a rare cathartic,

As ever doctor patient gart lick,

Whether you

To cure his ails ;

hae the head or heart-ake,
It ay prevails.

Ye tipplers, open a' your poses:
Ye, wha are fash'd wi' plouky noses,

Fling o'er

your craig sufficient doses;

You'll thole a hunder,

And naething under.

To fleg awa your simmer roses,

Whan big as burns the gutters rin,
Gin ye hae catcht a droukit skin,
To luckie Middlemist's loup in,

And sit fu' snug

Owre oysters and a dram o' gin,
Or haddock lug.

Whan auld Saunt Giles, at eight o'clock, Gars merchant lowns their shopies lock, There we adjourn wi' hearty fouk

To birle our bodles,

And get wharewi' to crack our joke, And clear our noddles.

Whan Phoebus did his winnocks steek, How aften at that ingle cheek

Did I my frosty fingers beek,

And prie good fare?

I trow there was nae hame to seek,

Whan steghin there.

While glaikit fools, owre rife o' cash, Pamper their wames wi' fousom trash, I think a chiel may gayly pass,

He's nae ill bodden,

That gusts his gab wi' oyster sauce,

An' hen weel sodden.

At Musselbrough, and eke Newhaven,
The fisher wives will get top livin'
Whan lads gang out on Sunday's even
To treat their joes,

And tak o' fat pandores a prievin',
Or mussel brose.

Then, sometimes, ere they flit their doup,
They'll aiblins a' their siller coup

For liquor clear, frae cutty stoup,

To weet their wizzen,

And swallow owre a dainty soup,

For fear they gizzen.

A' ye wha canna stand sae sicker,
Whan twice ye've toom'd the big-ars'd bicker,
Mix cauler oysters wi' your liquor,

And I'm your debtor,

If greedy priest or drowthy vicar

Will thole it better.