O Nature! a' thy shews an' forms Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, O sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder The warly race may drudge an' drive, Shall let the busy, grumbling hive Fareweel, my rhyme-composing brither!' May Envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend infernal! While Highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes; Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, POSTCRIPT. My memory's no worth a preen ; I had amaist forgotten clean, Ye bade me write you what they mean By this New-Light, 'Bout which our herds sae aft have been Maist like to fight. 80 90 100 ΠΙΟ In days when mankind were but callans They took nae pains their speech to balance, But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans, In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Wore by degrees, till her last roon, Gaed past their viewin', An' shortly after she was done, This past for certain, undisputed; An' muckle din there was about it, Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, An' backlins-comin, to the leuk, She grew mair bright. This was deny'd, it was affirm'd ; The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd, Should think they better were inform'd Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; Wi' hearty crunt; An' some, to learn them for their tricks, Were hang'd an' brunt. I 20 130 140 150 This game was play'd in mony lands, The lairds forbad, by strict commands, But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, Ye'll find ane plac'd; An' some, their new-light fair avow, Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin'; Wi' girnin spite, To hear the moon sae sadly lied on But shortly they will cowe the louns! An' stay ae month amang the moons, Guid observation they will gie them; An' when the auld moon 's gaun to lea'e them; An' when the new-light billies see them, Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter I hope we bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulzie. 160 170 180 LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, KILMARNOCK, ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. ΤΟ O GOUDIE! terror of the Whigs, Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition, Alas! there's ground for great suspicion Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, See how she fetches at the thrapple, Enthusiasm's past redemption, Gane in a galloping consumption; Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption, Tis you and Taylor are the chief, An' twa red peats wad send relief, For me, my skill's but very sma', An', tho' they sud you sair misca', E'en swinge the dogs, an' thresh them siccar; O' something stout;-- It gars an author's pulse beat quicker, There's naething like the honest nappy! "Tween morn an' morn, As them wha like to taste the drappie In glass or horn? I've seen me dazed upon a time, Then back I rattle on the rhyme THIRD EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK. GUID speed an' furder to you, Johnny, May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y |