Four excellent songs (10)/Mirren Gibb's Public House

MIRREN GIBB’S PUBLIC HOUSE.

Last Monday night at sax o’clock,
To Mirren Gibb’s I went, man,
To meet wi’ some auld cronies there,
It was my hale intent, man.
So down we sat and pried the yill,
Syne I pil’d out my sneeshin’ mill,
An’ took a pinch wi’ right good-will,
O’ beggar’s brown, the best in town.
Then sent it roun’ about the room,
To gie ilka ane a scent, man.

The sneeshin’ mill—the cap gaed round,
The joke, the crack an’ a’, man,
’Bout markets, trade, and politics,
To wear the time awa, man.
Ye never saw a blither set
O’ queer auld-fashion’d bodies met.
For fient a grain o’ pride ner pet,
Nor eating care got foeting there;
But friendship rare, aye found sincere,
And hearts without a flaw, man.

To cringing courtiers kings may blaw
How rich they are and great, man.
But we outstrip their kingships far
Wi’ a’ their regal state, man.
For Lucky’s swats sae brisk and fell,
An’ T——’s snuff sae sharp and snell,
Garr’d ilk ane quite forget himsel’;
Made young the auld, inflam’d the cauld.
And fir’d the saul with projects bauld,
That dar’d the power o’ fate, man.

But what are a’ sic mighty schemes
When ance the spell is broke, man,
A set o’ maut inspired whims
That end in perfect smoke, man.
An’ what like some disaster keen
Can chase the glamour frae our een,
And bring us to eursel’s again;
As was the fate o’ this auld pate,
When that night late I took the gate
As crouse as ony cock, man.

For sad misluck, without my hat,
I doiting cam’ awa, man;
An’ when I down the Drygate cam.
The win’ began to blaw, man.
When I cam to the Drygate Brig,
It whipt awa my good brown wig,
That whirl’d like ony whirligig,
As up it flew out o’ my view.
While I stood glowring, waefu’ blue,
Wi’ wide-extended jaw, man.

When I began to grape for’t syne,
Thrang poutering wi’ my staff, man,
I coupet owre a muckle stane,
And skail’d my pickle snuff, man.
My staff out o’ my hand did jump,
And hit my snout a dreadfu’ thump,
Which rais’d a most confoundet lump;
But whaur it flew I never knew.
Yet sair I rue tho mark sae blue,
It looks sae fleesome wauf, man.

Now wad ye profit by my loss,
Then tak’ advice frae me, man.
And ne’er let common sense tak’ wing
On fumes o’ barley bree, man.
For drink can heeze a man sae high,
As gar his head maist touch the sky,
But down he tumbles by and bye,
Wi’ sic a thud ’mang stanes and mud,
That aft it’s good if dirt and blood
Be a’ he has to dree, man.