A MILLION OF POTATOES (second installment)

The drive his sinfu' drift the sooner
He maun begin wi' -- "please your honour'
    (Flattery wha can resist!)
Ye hae a hunder' bows or twa,
O' London dons, I never saw
    Ony sae gude amaist

Your honour, sir, (and claw'd his head)
I'd like a few for next years seed,
    If ye would let me hae them; --
How mony want ye quo' the laird,
John thought a wee, an' fand his beard,
    Twa bows an ye could gi'e them?

Twa bows, nae doubt, I might could spare,
But a' the crap was sald fern-year
    To honest Walter Bryce,
At half a guinea, every bow;
Now, gin ye like, this year's to you
    I'll gi'e at the same price.

But to disperse them a' in taits,
Thro' different han's at different rates
    Altho' the price were doubled,
Twa bows to this man, three to that,
Four to a third -- 'deed John that's what
    I Ne'er could wi' be troubled, --

Weel, Weel, we'se no insist quo John,
(Lengthen'd his face and gied a groan),
    It mak's but little matter;
(A saint ye'd think, if ane's alive,
But faith how mony beans make five
    That John Deil ane kens better.)

Your honour's weel-being I wish
(We mauna throw awa the dish
    Thinks he tho' Crummie fling)
Lang may your usefu' life be spar'd
We subjects a' had better far'd
    If ye had been the king.

For Ne'er did mortal fill a throne
Since that wise monarch Solomon
    That could wi' you compare.
For wisdom, sense, and honesty;
Your honour, muckle may ye hae,
    That muckle ay grow mair.

In the laird's neeve John ramm'd his mill,
The laird ca'd in another gill,
    (Things now are looking up);
Thinks John, I see he's ta'en the bait,
The fault's my ain if now I let
    The precious moment slip.

to be continued