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XXII.
Now roaring din has done it best,
And waens lie skepped i' their nest;
Douse folks are a' gane to their rest,
But ither some
Drink and stand teuchly to the test
Till morning come.
XXIII.
Such are the feats of the New Year;
Folk waste the cash they wan su' dear,
For frae the glass they winna steer,
But ay they'll suck it,
Till a' their pouches o' their gear
Are fairly ruket.
XXIV.
Now Poet-Laureat I ha'e doon,
Gie us a flight as heigh's the moon:
Pour pension'd saul, ye ay maun tune
To busk and flatter,
But nae Scots bard, I trust, will croon
Sic cringing clatter.
