THE HOLY FAIR While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, They raise a din, that in the end Is like to breed a rupture O' wrath that day. Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair It never fails, on drinkin deep, By night or day. 1 The lads an' lasses, blythely bent On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, While some are cozie i' the neuk, An' forming assignations To meet some day. But now the L-'s ain trumpet touts, And echoes back return the shouts; His piercin words, like Highlan'2 swords, His talk o' Hell, whare devils dwell, Our vera "sauls does harrow " 3 THE HOLY FAIR A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, "Twad be owre lang a tale to tell, An' how they crouded to the yill,b How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, An' dawds that day. In comes a gawsie,d gash guidwife, Syne draws her kebbuck' an' her knife; The auld guidmen, about the grace, Till some ane by his bonnet lays, Fu' lang that day. Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass, THIRD EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK O wives, be mindfu' ance yoursel' Let lasses be affronted On sic a day! Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin tow," At slaps the billies halt a blink, Till lasses strip their shoon: Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, e For crack that day. How mony hearts this day converts O' sinners and o' lasses! Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane There's some are fou o' love divine; There's some are fou o' brandy; An' mony jobs that day begin, May end in houghmagandie Some ither day. Third Epistle to J. Lapraik.2 GUID speed and furders to you, Johnie, THIRD EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK May Boreas never thresh your rigs, But may the tapmost grain that wags с I'm bizzie, too, an' skelpin at it, But bitter, daudind showers hae wat it; An' took my joctelege an whatt' it, It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, On holy men, While deil a hair yoursel' ye're better, But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, But browster wives an' whisky stills, Your friendship, sir, I winna quath it, Then hand in neive1 some day we'll knot it, An' when wi' usquabae' we've wat it It winna break. EPISTLE TO REV. JOHN M'MATH a But if the beast an' branks be spar'd An' theekit right, I mean your ingle-side to guard Then muse-inspirin aquavitæ Shall make us baith sae blythe and witty, As ye were nine years less than thretty- But stooks are cowpite wi' the blast, An' quat my chanter;" Sae I subscribe mysel' in haste, Yours, Rab the Ranter. Sept. 13, 1785. Epistle to the Rev. John M'Math,1 INCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER," WHICH HE HAD REQUESTED, SEPT. 17, 1785. ⚫ bridle. WHILE at the stook the shearers cow'r To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, Or in gulravage rinnin scowr • overturned. To pass the time, I dedicate the hour In idle rhyme. b covered. 1 Mr M'Math, a clergyman of liberal opinions, "eventually took to hard drinking, and died in the Isle of Mull, |