POSTSCRIPT. My memory's no worth a preen; Ye bade me write you what they mean 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been In days when mankind were but callans They took nae pains their speech to balance, But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans, Like you or me. In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Wore by degrees, till her last roon, Gaed past their viewing, An' shortly after she was done, They gat a new ane. This past for certain, undisputed; An' muckle din there was about it, Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, An' backlins-comin, to the leuk, She grew mair bright. 1 See note, p. 60. This was deny'd, it was affirmed; Should think they better were inform'd Than their auld daddies. Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; Wi' hearty crunt; An' some, to learn them for their tricks, This game was play'd in monie lands, The lairds forbade, by strict commands, But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, Ye'll find ane placed; 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! An' stay a month amang the moons, Guid observation they will gie them; An' when the new-light billies see them, I think they'll crouch! Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter I hope, we bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulzie, EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKIN, ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankin, Your dreams an' tricks Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin, 1 A certain humorous dream of his was then making noise in the country-side. Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, An' fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, 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, Frae ony unregenerate heathen Like you or I. I've sent you here some rhyming ware, Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, I will expect Yon sang', ye'll sen't wi' cannie care And no neglect. Tho', faith, sma' heart hae I to sing; An' danc'd my fill! I'd better gaen an' sair'd the king 2 A song he had promised the Author. 'Twas ae night lately in my fun, And, 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; But, deil-ma-care! Somebody tells the poacher-court The hale affair. Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note, 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, The game shall I vow an' swear! pay, o'er moor an' dale, For this, niest year. As soon's the clockin-time is by, For my gowd guinea; Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye For't, in Virginia. |