On Captain Grose's Peregrinations Through Scotland, Collecting The Antiquities Of That Kingdom.

    Hear, Land o' Cakes and brither Scots,
    Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's;
    If there's a hole in a' your coats,
        I rede you tent it:
    A chiel's amang you taking notes,
        And, faith, he'll prent it!

    If in your bounds ye chance to light
    Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight,
    O' stature short, but genius bright,
        That's he, mark weel,
    And wow! he has an unco slight
        O' cauk and keel.

    By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,
    Or kirk deserted by its riggin,
    It's ten to one ye'll find him snug in
        Some eldritch part,
    Wi' deils, they say, L--d save's! colleaguin'
        At some black art.

    Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer,
    Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamour,
    And you deep read in hell's black grammar,
        Warlocks and witches;
    Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer,
        Ye midnight b----s!

    It's tauld he was a sodger bred,
    And ane wad rather fa'n than fled;
    But now he's quat the spurtle-blade,
        And dog-skin wallet,
    And ta'en the, Antiquarian trade,
        I think they call it.

    He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets:
    Rusty airn caps and jinglin' jackets,
    Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets,
        A towmont guid;
    And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets,
        Afore the flood.

    Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder;
    Auld Tubal-Cain's fire-shool and fender;
    That which distinguished the gender
        O' Balaam's ass;
    A broom-stick o' the witch o' Endor,
        Weel shod wi' brass.

    Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg,
    The cut of Adam's philibeg:
    The knife that nicket Abel's craig
        He'll prove you fully,
    It was a faulding jocteleg,
        Or lang-kail gully.

    But wad ye see him in his glee,
    For meikle glee and fun has he,
    Then set him down, and twa or three
        Guid fellows wi' him;
    And port, O port! shine thou a wee,
        And then ye'll see him!

    Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose!
    Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose!
    Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose,
        They sair misca' thee;
    I'd take the rascal by the nose,
        Wad say, Shame fa' thee!