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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 bare-fac'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 neebor towns
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 i’ 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

EPISTLE TO J. R******,

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS.

O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted R******
The wale o cocks for fun and drinkin!
There's monie godly folks are thinkin,

Your dreams* an' tricks
Will send you, Korah-like, a sinkin,

Straight to auld Nick's.

Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants,
And in your wicked, drucken rants,
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts,

And fill them fou;
And then their failings, flaws, an’ wants,

Are a' seen thro'.

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!
That holy robe, o dinna tear it!
Spart for their sakes wha aften wear it,

The lads in black;
But your curst wit, when it comes near it,

Rives't aff their back.

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye’re skaithing,
It's just the blue-gown badge an' claithing

A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the country-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,
A’ that I bargain'd for, an' mair;
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare,

I will expect
Your sang,* ye'll sen't wi' cannie care,

And no neglect.

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing !
My Muse dow scarcely spread her wing'
I've play'd mysel a bonie spring,

An' danc'd my fill!
I'd better gaen an' sair'd the king,

At Bunker's Hill!

'Twas ae night, lately, in my fun,
I gaed a roving wi' the gun,
An' brought a paitrick to the grun,

A bonie hen;
An', as the twilight was begun,

Thought nane wad ken.

The poor, wee thing was little hurt,
I straikit it a wee for sport,
Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me fort,

But deil-may-care!
Somebody tells the poacher-court

The hale affair.

* A song he had promised the author.

Some auld-us'd hands had taen a note
That sic a hen had got a shot ;
I was suspected for the plot ;

I scorn'd to lie,
So gat the whissle o' my groat,

An' pay't the fee.

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale,
An' by my pouther an' my hail,
An' by my hen, an' by her tail,

I vow an' swear!
The game shall pay, o'er moor an' dale,

For this, niest year.

As soon's the clockin-time is by,
An' the wee pouts begin to cry,
L-d, I'se hae sportin by an' by,

For my gowd guinea,
Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye

Fordt in Virginia.

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;
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair!
But pennyworths again is fair,

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 ! And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie? I kennd it still your wee bit jauntie

Wad bring ye to:
Lord send ye ay as weel's I want ye,

And then ye'll do.

The ill-thief blaw the Heron* south!
And never drink be near his drouth!
He tald mysel, by word o’ mouth,

He'd tak my letter;
I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth,

And bade nae better.

But aiblins honest Master Heron
Had at the time some dainty fair one,
To ware his theologic care on,

And holy study;
And tir'd o sauls to waste his lear on,

E’en tried the body.

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 other works.

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