The lads and lasses, gladly bent,
To mind both soul and body,
Sit round the table, well content,
And steer about the toddy.

On this one's dress, and that one's look,
They're making observations,

While some are cosey in the nook,
And forming assignations

To meet some day.

But now the Lord's own trumpet toots
Till all the hills are roaring,

And echoes back return the shouts,
Black Russell is outpouring;

His piercing words, like Highland swords,
Divide the joints and marrows;

His talk of hell where devils dwell;
Our very soul it harrows

With fright that day.

A vast, unbottomed, boundless pit
Filled full of flaming brimstone,
Where water on the scorching heat
Acts as it would on limestone!
The half-asleep start up with fear
And think they hear it roaring,
When presently it does appear,
'Twas but some neighbor snoring,
Asleep that day.

'T would take too long to tell the tale Of all this famous session,

And how they crowded to the ale

Just after the dismission;

How drink went round in jugs and cups

Among the forms and benches;

And cheese and bread from women's laps Was dealt about in lunches

And lumps that day.

In comes a matronly goodwife
And sits down by the fire,

She draws her cheese and eke her knife;
The lasses they are shyer.

The old goodman about the grace,
From side to side they bother,
But soon begins with serious face,
And makes it long's as a tether
Of cow that day.

Alas for him that gets no lass,
Or lasses that have nothing!
Small need has he to say a grace,
Or soil his Sunday clothing.

O wives, you know, when you were young
How bonny lads you wanted;

The lasses' heads with shame will hang
If bread and cheese be scanted
On such a day.

Now Clinkumbell, with rattling tow,
Cries out his usual tune;

Some swagger home the best they know,
Some wait till afternoon.

At dykes the fellows halt a blink,
Till lasses strip their shoon;

With faith and hope, and love and drink,
They're all in famous tune

For talk that day.

How many hearts this day converts

Of sinners and of lasses!

Their hearts of stone, ere night, are gone As soft as any flesh is.

There's some are full of love divine,

And some of brandy fuddle;

And many jobs, that day begun,

May end in kiss and cuddle

Some other day.

EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK.
APRIL 1, 1785.

While briars and woodbines budding green,
And partridge screaming loud at e'en,
And leaping hare, with pleasure keen
Inspires my Muse,

These lines from one you've never seen
You'll pray excuse.

On Fast-day night we had a rocking,
To sit and chat and weave our stocking;
And there was lots of fun and joking,
You need not doubt;

At length we had a hearty yoking
At song about.

There was one song among the rest,
(Above them all it pleased me best),
That some kind husband had addressed
To some sweet wife;

It thrilled the heartstrings in my breast,
Keen to the life.

The words so grandly did reveal
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel;
Thinks I, "Can this be Pope, or Steele,
Or Beattie's work?"

They told me 'twas a poet leal,
In old Muirkirk.

My curiosity inspired,

About him further I enquired;

Then all that knew him round declared,
He had some brains,

And rhyming gift with genius fired,
Ran through his veins.

That, set him to a pint of ale,
And whether wise or merry tale
Or rhyming songs, he'd never fail,
Or witty catches;
'Tween Inverness and Teviotdale,
He had few matches.

Then up I got and swore (no harm in 't), Though I should pawn my nether garment, Or die like cat or other varmint

At some dyke-back,

I'd buy a gill of reeking ferment
To hear you talk.

But, first and foremost, I shall tell,
Almost as soon as I could spell

I to the versifying fell,

Though rude and rough:

To please myself, and friends as well,
It's good enough.

I am no poet in a sense,

But just a rhymer, like by chance,
And have to learning no pretence
But 't is no matter!

Whene'er my Muse does on me glance,

my

Í jingle at her.

Your critic folk may cock their nose,
And say, "How can you e'er propose,
You, who know hardly verse from prose,
To make a song?"

But, by your leave, my learned foes,
You may be wrong.

What's all your jargon of your schools,
Your Latin names for horns and stools;
If honest Nature made you fools,

Throw by your grammars

And take to spades and farming tools,
Or swinging hammers.

Dull blockheads, whose vain hope in cash is,
Confuse their brains in college classes;
They go in colts, and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;

And think to climb up steep Parnassus
By dint of Greek.

Give me one spark of Nature's fire,
That's all the learning I desire;

Then, though I drudge through dub and mire
At plough or cart,

My Muse, though homely in attire,
May touch the heart.

Oh, for a spark of Ramsay's glee,
Or Fergusson, the bold and free,
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be,
If I can hit it!

That would be good enough for me,
If I could get it.

No doubt you've friends both old and new,
Though real friends I think are few;
Yet, if you want a friend that's true,
I'm on your list,

Still, if you think you'd maybe rue,
I wont insist.

My self-esteem does not excel,
Nor do I like my faults to tell;

But friends and folks that wish me well,
They sometimes praise me;

Though I must own as many still

As far debase me,

There's one bit fault for which they blame me;
I like the lasses Heaven tame me!
For many a penny's wheedled from me
At dance or fair;

I might say_more that ought to shame me,
But I'll forbear.

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair,
I shall be proud to meet you there;
We'll give one night's discharge to Care,
If we foregather,

And have a swap of rhyming ware
With one another.

We'll make the whiskey bottle clatter,
And christen him with boiling water,
And sit us down and make it scatter
To cheer our heart;

And, faith! we'll be acquainted better
Before we part.

Away, you selfish, worldly race,
Who think decorum, sense, and grace,
Ev'n love and friendship should give place
To catch the coin!

I do not like to see your face,

Nor bear your frown.

But you whom social pleasure charms,
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms,
Who hold your being on the terms,
"Each aid the others,"

Come to my bowl, come to my arms,
My friends, my brothers!

But now I see I'll have to hustle,

My old goose-quill's worn to the gristle;
Two lines from you will make me whistle
Both gay and fervent;

I now subscribe my first epistle,

Your friend and servant.