Poem by James Ruickbie

To Mr. ---, at ---, on being fined for selling Ale without Licence

Sir, you’ll receive my twa pund ten,
	Wi’ what you call expences,
Sometimes misfortunes humble men
	And bring them to their senses.

For now I’m by experience taught,
	(The schoolmaster of asses),
What ’tis to quaff the illicit draught,
	And touch unhallow’d glasses.

Deil thank your pot to wallop brown,
	While mine boils thin and bluely,
When ilka scrawl ye gie’s a crown,
	But law does a’ things truly.

Leeze me on law! when we gang wrang
	It keeps us aye in order,
And never suffers us to gang
	O’er the forbidden border.

The lawyer watches for our wealth,
	The patriot for our nation,
The doctor watches for our health,
	The priest for our salvation.

When guarded by this fourfold fence,
	Auld Nick can never fang us;
Nor Bonapart’ e’er drive us hence,
	Nor villains mint to wrang us.

God save the King! and bless the Law,
	With crime-detesting vigour;
May villains underneath its paw,
	Be punished with rigour.

And here’s ilk honest lawyers health,
	Upon my knees I toast it,
In that same ale I had by stealth,
	But now hae paid the cost o’t.

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