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O Nature! a' thy shews an' forms
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!
Whether the summer kindly warms,
Wi' life an' light,

Or winter howls, in gusty storms,
The lang, dark night!

The Muse, nae poet ever fand her,
Till by himsel he learn'd to wander
Adown some trottin' burn's meander,
An' no think lang;

O sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder
A heart-felt sang!

The warly race may drudge an' drive,
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive;
Let me fair Nature's face descrive,
And I, wi' pleasure,

Shall let the busy, grumbling hive
Bum owre their treasure.

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing brither!'
We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither:
Now let us lay our heads thegither,
In love fraternal;

May Envy wallop in a tether,

Black fiend infernal!

While Highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes;
While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies
While Terra Firma, on her axis,
Diurnal turns,

Count on a friend, in faith an' practice,
In Robert Burns.

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.

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ΠΙΟ

In days when mankind were but callans
At grammar, logic, an' sic talents,

They took nae pains their speech to balance,
Or rules to gie,

But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans,
Like you or me.

In thae auld times, they thought the moon,
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon,

Wore by degrees, till her last roon,

Gaed past their viewin',

An' shortly after she was done,
They gat a new one.

This past for certain, undisputed;
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it,
Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it,
An' ca'd it wrang;

An' muckle din there was about it,
Baith loud an' lang.

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk,
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk;
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk,
An' out o' sight,

An' backlins-comin, to the leuk,

She grew mair bright.

This was deny'd, it was affirm'd ;
The herds an' hissels were alarm'd :

The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd,
That beardless laddies

Should think they better were inform'd
Than their auld daddies.

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks;
Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks;
An' mony a fallow gat his licks,

Wi' hearty crunt;

An' some, to learn them for their tricks,

Were hang'd an' brunt.

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This game was play'd in mony lands,
An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands,
That, faith, the youngsters took the sands
Wi' nimble shanks;

The lairds forbad, by strict commands,
Sic bluidy pranks.

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe,
Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an-stowe,
Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe

Ye'll find ane plac'd;

An' some, their new-light fair avow,
Just quite barefac'd.

Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin';
Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin' ;
Mysel, I've even seen them greetin'

Wi' girnin spite,

To hear the moon sae sadly lied on
By word an' write.

But shortly they will cowe the louns!
Some auld-light herds in neibor-touns
Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons,
To tak a flight,

An' stay ae month amang the moons,
An' see them right.

Guid observation they will gie them;

An' when the auld moon 's gaun to lea'e them;
The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them,
Just ' their pouch,

An' when the new-light billies see them,
I think they'll crouch!

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter
Is naething but a 'moonshine matter';
But tho' dull-prose folk Latin splatter
In logic tulzie,

I hope we bardies ken some better

Than mind sic brulzie.

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LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, KILMARNOCK,

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS.

ΤΟ

O GOUDIE! terror of the Whigs,
Dread o' blackcoats and rev'rend wigs,
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,
Girnin' looks back,

Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues
Wad seize you quick.

Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition,
Wae's me! she's in a sad condition;
Fy, bring Black-Jock, her state physician,
To see her water;

Alas! there's ground for great suspicion
She'll ne'er get better.

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,
But now she's got an unco' ripple ;
Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel,
Nigh unto death;

See how she fetches at the thrapple,
An' gasps for breath.

Enthusiasm's past redemption,

Gane in a galloping consumption;
Not a' the quacks, with a' their gumption,
Will ever mend her;

Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption,
Death soon will end her.

Tis you and Taylor are the chief,
Wha are to blame for this mischief;
But gin the Lord's ain folk get leave,
A toom tar-barrel

An' twa red peats wad send relief,
An' end the quarrel.

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For me, my skill's but very sma',
An' skill in prose I've nane ava,
But, quietlins-wise, between us twa,
Weel may ye speed!

An', tho' they sud you sair misca',
Ne'er fash your head.

E'en swinge the dogs, an' thresh them siccar;
The mair they squeal, aye chap the thicker ;
An' still, 'mang hands, a hearty bicker

O' something stout;--

It gars an author's pulse beat quicker,
An' helps his wit!

There's naething like the honest nappy!
Where will ye e'er see men sae happy,
Or women sousy, saft, an' sappy,

"Tween morn an' morn, As them wha like to taste the drappie In glass or horn?

I've seen me dazed upon a time,
I scarce cou'd wink or see a styme;
Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime
(Ought less is little);

Then back I rattle on the rhyme
As gleg's a whittle!

THIRD EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK.

GUID speed an' furder to you, Johnny,
Guid health, hale han's, and weather bonnie;
Now when ye're nickin' down fu' cannie
The staff o' bread,

May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y
To clear your head.

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