Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, An' backlins-comin, to the leuk, She grew mair bright. This was deny'd, it was affirm'd; The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd, That beardless laddies 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, Were hang'd an' brunt. This game was play'd in monie lands, Wi' nimble shanks, 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, Ye'll find ane plac'd ; 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 lie'd on By word an' write. But shortly they will cowe the louns! An' stay ae month amang the moons Guid observation they will gie them; An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them, The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, Just i' their pouch, An' when the new-light billies see them, I think they'll crouch! Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter In logic tulzie, I hope, we bardies ken some better EPISTLE TO J. R****** INCLOSING SOME POEMS. O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted R **** The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin! Your dreams' an' tricks Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin, Straught to auld Nick's. Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, An' fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Are a' seen thro'. Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it! That holy robe, O dinna tear it! Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it, The lads in black; But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, Frae ony unregenerate heathen Like you or I. 1 A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the country-side. I've sent you here some rhyming ware, 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' saird the king, At Bunker's Hill. "Twas ae night lately in my fun, An' 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 was suspected for the plot; I scorn'd to lie; So gat the whissle o' my groat, An' pay't the fee. ? A song he had promis'd the author. VOL. II. But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, I vow an' swear! The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale, As soon's the clockin time is by, For my gowd guinea: Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye For't, in Virginia. Trowth, they had muckle for to blame! 'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame Scarce thro' the feathers; An' baith a yellow George to claim, An' thole their blethers! It pits me ay as mad's a hare; When time's expedient: Meanwhile I am, respected sir, Your most obedient. |