EPISTLE TO REV. JOHN M'MATH

My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet

b

On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet,
Is grown right eerie now she's done it,
Lest they should blame her,
An' rouse their holy thunder on it
And anathem her.

I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy,
That I a simple, country bardie,
Should meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy,
Wha, if they ken me,

Can easy, wi' a single wordie,

Lowse hell upon me.

But I gae mad at their grimaces,
Their sighin, cantin, grace-proud faces,
Their three-mile prayers, an' half-mile graces,
Their raxind conscience,

Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces
Waur nor their nonsense.

There's Gaw'n, misca'd waur than a beast,
Wha has mair honour in his breast
Than mony scores as guid's the priest
Wha sae abus'd him:

And may a bard no crack his jest

What way they've us'd him?

See him, the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word an' deed-
An' shall his fame an' honour bleed
By worthless skellums,

An' not a muse erect her head

e

To cowe the blellums!?

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts
To gie the rascals their deserts,

grave.
4 stretching.

b frightened.
⚫ rascals.

• let loose.

f blusterers.

EPISTLE TO REV. JOHN M'MATH

I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts,
An' tell aloud

Their jugglin hocus-pocus arts

To cheat the crowd.

God knows, I'm no the thing I should be,
Nor am I even the thing I could be,
But twenty times I rather would be
An atheist clean,

Than under gospel colours hid be
Just for a screen.

An honest man may like a glass,
An honest man may like a lass,
But mean revenge, an' malice fause
He'll still disdain,

An' then cry zeal for gospel laws,
Like some we ken.

They take religion in their mouth;
They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth,
For what?-to gie their malice skouth
On some puir wight,

An' hunt him down, owre right and ruth,
To ruin straight.

All hail, Religion! maid divine!
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine,
Who in her rough imperfect line

Thus daurs to name thee;

To stigmatise false friends of thine
Can ne'er defame thee.

Tho' blotch't and foul wi' mony a stain,
An' far unworthy of thy train,

With trembling voice I tune my strain,
To join with those

Who boldly dare thy cause maintain

In spite of foes:

EPISTLE TO REV. JOHN M'MATH

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs,
In spite o' undermining jobs,

In spite o' dark banditti stabs

At worth an' merit,

By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes,
But hellish spirit.

O Ayr! my dear, my native ground,
Within thy presbyterial bound
A candid liberal band is found
Of public teachers,

As men, as christians too, renown'd,
An' manly preachers.

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd;
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd;
An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd
(Which gies you honour)

Even, sir, by them your heart's esteem'd,
An' winning manner.

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en,
An' if impertinent I've been,
Impute it not, good sir, in ane

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye,

But to his utmost would befriend
Ought that belang'd ye.

SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE

Second Epistle to Davie.1

AULD NEIBOUR,

A BROTHER POET.

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor,
For your auld-farrant, frien❜ly letter;
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter,
Ye speak sae fair;

For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter

Some less maun sair.b

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle,
Lang may your elbuck jink an' diddle,
To cheer you thro' the weary widdled
O' war'ly cares;

Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle

Your auld grey hairs.

But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikitR;
I'm tauld the muse ye hae negleckit;
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be lickit'

Until ye fyke;

Sic haun's as you sud ne'er be faikit,h

Be hain't wha like.

For me, I'm on Parnassus brink,

Rivin' the words to gar them clink;

Whiles dazed wi' love, whiles dazed wi' drink,

Wi' jads or masons;

An' whiles, but aye owre late, I think

Braw sober lessons.

YOUNG PEGGY BLOOMS

Except it be some idle plan

O' rhymin clink,

The devil haet, "-that I sud ban

They ever think.

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin,
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin,

But just the pouchie put the neive in,

An' while ought's there,

Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin,b

An' fash nae mair.

Leeze me ond rhyme! it's aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure;
At hame, a-fiel', at wark, or leisure,

The muse, poor hizzie!

Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure,
She's seldom lazy.

Haud to the muse, my daintie Davie :
The warl' may play you mony a shavie1·
But for the muse, she'll never leave ye,
Tho' e'er sae puir,

Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie

Frae door to door.

Song.-Young Peggy Blooms.1

Tune-"Loch Eroch-side."

YOUNG Peggy blooms our boniest lass,
Her blush is like the morning,
The rosy dawn, the springing grass,
With early gems adorning.

⚫ never a bit.

bhelter skelter we go careering. d commend me to.⚫ coarse. 1 Peggy was a Miss Kennedy, a kinswoman of Gavin Hamilton's wife. She

did not marry "the highly favoured

c trouble. f trick. youth," and was unfortunate in a life closed by an early death. (Chambers.)