The reverend gray-beards raved and storm'd
That beardless laddies

Should think they better were inform'd
Than their auld daddies.1

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks;
Frae words and aiths to clours and nicks ;2
And mony a fallow gat his licks,”

Wi' hearty crunt:4

And some, to learn them for their tricks,
Were hang'd and brunt.

This game was play'd in mony lands,
And Auld-Light caddies bure 5 sic hands
That, faith, the youngsters took the sands
Wi' nimble shanks,6

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

But New-Light herds gat sic a cowe,?
Folk thought them ruin'd stick and stowe,
Till now amaist on every knowe

1 Fathers.

Ye'll find ane placed;

And some their New-Light fair avow,
Just quite barefaced.

Nae doubt the Auld-Light flocks are bleatin';
Their zealous herds are vex'd and sweatin';
Mysel, I've even seen them greetin❜9

Wi' girnin' spite,

To hear the moon sae sadly lied on,
By word and write.

But shortly they will cowe the loons ! 10
Some Auld-Light herds in neibor towns
Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons,
To tak a flight,

And stay ae month amang the moons,
And see them right.

Guid observation they will gie them;

And when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them,
The hindmost shaird,11 they'll fetch it wi' them,
Just i' their pouch,

And when the New-Light billies 12

see them,

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter1
Is naething but a "moonshine matter;"
But though dull prose-folk Latin splatter
In logic tulzie, 2

I hope we bardies ken some better

Than mind sic brulzie.3

1 Gossip.

3 Broils.

THIRD EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK.

September 13,1785.

GUID speed and furder* to you, Johnny,
Guid health, hale han's, and weather bonny;
Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny
The staff o' bread,

May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y
To clear your head.

May Boreas never thrash your rigs,+
Nor kick your rickles aff your legs,
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs and haggs
Like drivin' wrack;

But may the tapmast grain that wags
Come to the sack.

6

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor,
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter,
Abusin' me for harsh ill nature

2 Contention.

4 Cutting

Your friendship, sir, I winna quat it,
And if ye mak objections at it,

Then han' in nieve1 some day we'll knot2 it,
And witness take,

And when wi' usquebae we've wat it,

It winna break.

As ye were nine year less than thretty,9
Sweet ane and twenty!

But stooks are cowpit 10 wi' the blast,
And now the sinn keeks 11 in the west,
Then I maun rin amang the rest,

And quat my chanter ;

Sae I subscribe myself in haste,

Yours, RAB THE RANTER.

EPISTLE TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH.

THE Rev. John M'Math was at the time this epistle was sent assistant to the
Rev. Peter Wodrow of Torbolton.

My Musie, tired wi' mony a sonnet

On gown, and ban', and douce 15 black bonnet,

Is grown right eerie1 now she's done it,
Lest they should blame her,
And rouse their holy thunder on it
And anathem her.

I own 'twas rash, and 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, and half-mile graces,
Their raxin'2 conscience,

Whase greed, revenge, and pride disgraces
Waur nor their nonsense.

There's Gawn,* misca't3 waur than a beast,
Wha has mair honour in his breast

Than mony scores as guid's the priest

Wha sae abuse't him.

And may a bard no crack his jest

What way they've use't him?

See him, the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word and deed,

And shall his fame and honour bleed

By worthless skellums,*

And not a muse erect her head

To cowe the blellums ?

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts,
To gie the rascals their deserts,
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts,
And 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,

An honest man may like a glass,
An honest man may like a lass,
But mean revenge, and malice fause,1
He'll still disdain,

And then cry zeal for gospel laws,

Like some we ken.

They take religion in their mouth;
They talk o' mercy, grace, and truth,
For what?-to gie their malice skouth2
On some puir wight,

And hunt him down, o'er 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.

Though blotcht and foul wi' mony a stain,
And far unworthy of thy train,

With trembling voice I tune my strain

To join with those

Who boldly daur thy cause maintain

In spite o' foes:

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

In spite o' dark banditti stabs

At worth and 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,

And manly preachers.

Sir, in that circle you are named;

Sir, in that circle you are famed ;

And some, by whom your doctrine's blamed,

(Which gies you honour),

Even, sir, by them your heart's esteem'd,

And winning manner.

1 False.

2 Scope.