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But new-light herds gat sic a cowe,
Ye'll find ane plac’d;
Just quite bare-fac'd.
Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin;
Wi' girnin spite,
By word an’ write.
But shortly they will cowe the louns ;
To tak a flight,
An' see them right.
Guid observation they will gie them,
Just i’ their pouch;
I think they'll crouch!
Sae ye observe that a’ this clatter
In logic tulzie,
Than mind sic brulzie
EPISTLE TO J. R******,
ENCLOSING SOME POEMS.
O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted R******
Your dreams* an' tricks
Straight to auld Nick's.
Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants,
And fill them fou;
Are a' seen thro'.
Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!
The lads in black;
Rives't aff their back.
Think, wicked sinner, wha ye’re skaithing,
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,
I will expect
And no neglect.
Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing !
An' danc'd my fill!
At Bunker's Hill!
'Twas ae night, lately, in my fun,
A bonie hen;
Thought nane wad ken.
The poor, wee thing was little hurt,
The hale affair.
* A song he had promised the author.
Some auld-us'd hands had taen a note
I scorn'd to lie,
An' pay't the fee.
But, by my gun, o' guns the wale,
I vow an' swear!
For this, niest year.
As soon's the clockin-time is by,
For my gowd guinea,
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;
When time's expedient !
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:
And then ye'll do.
The ill-thief blaw the Heron* south!
He'd tak my letter;
And bade nae better.
But aiblins honest Master Heron
And holy study;
E’en tried the body.
But what d’ye think, my trusty fier,
Ye'll now disdain me;
* Mr. Heron, author of a History of Scotland, and various other works.