Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me, When winds rave thro' the naked tree; Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree

Are hoary gray;

Or blinding drifts wild furious flee,
Dark'ning the day!

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 trotting 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-shouth 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,
Ir. ROBERT Burns.

POSTSCRIPT.

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 hae beer
Maist like to fight.

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

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

But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallians,
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.

* New Light, a cant phrase, in the West of Scotland, for those relige yous opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich, defended so strenuously.

This past for certain, undisputed;
It ne'er cam in the ads to doubt it
Till chiels gat up and wad confute it,
An' ca'd it wrang;

An' muckle din there was about it,
Baith loud and 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 denied, it was affirm'd;
The herds an' hissles 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 blours an' nicks;
And monie a fallow gat his licks,

Wi' hearty crunt;

An' some, to learn them for their tricks,
Were hang'd an' brunt.

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

Till airds forbade, by strict commands,
Sic bluidy pranks.

183

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 snortly 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 'their pouch;

An' wher 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' dill prose-folk Latin splatter,
In logic tulzie,

I hope we bardies ken some better
Than mind sic brulzie

A

EPISTLE TO J. R******

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS.

OɔUGн, 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!

Spar't 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.