Athol Brose
Charm’d with a drink which Highlanders compose,
A German traveller exclaim’d with glee,—
“Potztausend! sare, if dis is Athol Brose,
How goot dere Athol Boetry must be!”
On the Depreciated Money
They may talk of the plugging and sweating,
Of our coinage that’s minted of gold,
But to me it produces no fretting
Of its shortness of weight to be told:
All the sov’reigns I’m able to levy
As to lightness can never be wrong,
But must surely be some of the heavy,
For I never can carry them long.