EPISTLE TO J. R******, ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted R******, Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, And fill then fou; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Are a' seen thro'.' Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it! That holy robe, O dinna tear it! But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the Bountry-side. O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething To ken them by, Frae ony unregen'rate heathen, Like you or I. I've sent you here some rhyming ware, Your sang,* ye'll sen't wi' cannie care, Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing! An' danc'd my fill! I'd better gaen an' sair'd the king, 'Twas ae night, lately, in my fun, An', as the twilight was begun, Thought nane wad ken. The poor, wee thing was little hurt, Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't, Somebody tells the poacher-court The hale affair. A song he had promised the author. Some auld-us'd hands had taen a note I was suspected for the plot; I scorn'd to lie, So gat the whissle o' my groat, But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, The game shall pay, o'er moor an' dale, As soon's the clockin-time is by, Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye Trowth, they had muckle for to blame! "Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame, Scarce thro' the feathers An' baith a yellow George to claim, An' thole their blethers! It pits me ay as mad's a hare; When time's expedient Meanwhile, I am, respected sir, Your most obedient. TO DR. BLACKLOCK. ELLISLAND, OCTOBER, 21, 1789. Wow, but your letter made me vauntie! Lord send ye ay as weel's I want ye, The ill-thief blaw the Heron* south! But aiblins honest Master Heron And holy study; And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, I'm turn'd a guager peace be here! Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear Ye'll now disdain me; • Mr. Heron, author of a History of Scotland, and various othel works. And then my fifty pounds a year Ye glaikit, gleesome, daintie damies That strang necessity supreme is ’Mang sons o men. I hae a wife an' twa wee laddies; But I'll sned besoms-thraw saugh woodies, Lord help me thro' this warld o'care' Than monie ithers: But why should ae man better fare, Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van, And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan Wha does the utmost that he can, Will whyles do mair. But to conclude my silly rhyme, (I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) To make a happy fire-side clime To weans and wife. |