EPISTLES IN VERSE.

TO J. LAPRAIK.

Sept. 13th, 1785.

GUID speed an' furder to you Johny,

Guid health, hale han's, an' weather bony; Now when ye're nickan down fu' cany

The staff o' bread,

May ye ne'er want a stoup o' brany
To clear your head,

May Boreas never thresh your rigs,
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs

Like drivin' wrack;

But may the tapmast grain that wags

Come to the sack.

I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it,
But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it,
Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it

Wi' muckle wark,

An' took my jocteleg* an' whatt it,

Like ony clark.

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

On holy men,

While deil a hair yoursel ye're better,

But mair profane.

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells,
Let's sing about our noble sels;
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills

To help, or roose us,

But browster wivest an' whiskie stills,
They are the muses.

Your friendship sir, I winna quat it,

An' if ye mak' objections at it,

Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it,

An' witness take,

An' when wi' Usquabae we've wat it

It winna break.

Jocteleg a knife.

+ Browster wives-alehouse wives.

But

But if the beast and branks be spar'd
Till kye be gaun without the herd,

An' a' the vittel in the yard,

An' theckit right,

I mean your ingle-side to guard

Ae winter night.

Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitæ

Shall make us baith sae blythe an' witty,
Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty,

An' be as canty

As ye were nine year less than thretty,

Sweet ane an' twenty!

But stooks are cowpet* wi' the blast,
An' now the sinn keeks in the west,
Then I maun rin amang the rest

An' quat my

Sae I subscribe mysel in haste,

chanter;

Your's, Rab the Ranter.†

TO

*Cowpet-Tumbled over.

+Rab the Ranter.-It is very probable that the poet thus named himself after the Border Piper, so spiritedly introduced in the popular song of Maggie Lauder :

"For I'm a piper to my trade,

My name is Rab the Ranter;
The lasses loup as they were daft,
When I blaw up my chanter."

TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH,

ENCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER,

WHICH HE HAD REQUESTED.

Sept. 17th, 1785.

WHILE at the stook the shearers cow'r

To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r,

Or in gulravage* rinnin scow'r

To pass the time,

To you I dedicate the hour

In idle rhyme.

My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet

On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet,
Is grown right eerie now she's done it,

Lest they shou'd blame her,

An' rouse their holy thunder on it

And anathem her.

I own

* Gulravage-Running in a confused, disorderly man

ner, like boys when leaving school.

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

Can

easy, wi' a single wordie,

Louse h-ll upon me.

But I

gae mad at their grimaces,

Their sighan, cantan, grace-prood faces,
Their three-mile prayers, an hauf-mile graces,
Their raxan conscience,

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

There's Gaun,* miska't waur than a beast,
Wha has mair honor in his breast

Than mony scores as guid's the priest

Wha sae abus't him.

An' 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 an' deed,

An' shall his fame an' honor bleed

By worthless skellums,

An' not a muse erect her head

To cowe the blellums?

O Pope,

* Gavin Hamilton, Esq.

+ The poet has introduced the two first lines of this stanza into the dedication of his works to Mr. Hamilton.