PISTLES IN VERSE. To J. LAPRAIK. Sept. 13th, 1785. Guid speed an' furder to you, Johny, May ye ne'er want a stoup o' branny May boreas never thresh your rigs, But may the tapmast grain that wags I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it, Wi' muckle wark, An' took my joeteleg an' whatt it, Like ony clark. It's now twa months that I'm your debtor, 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; Jocteleg a knife. We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills To help, or roose us, But browster wives an' whiskie stills, They are the muses. Your friendship sir, I winna quat 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. But if the beast and branks be spar'd An' a' the vittel in the yard, An' theekit right, I mean your ingle-side to guard Ae winter night. Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitæ Shall make us baith sae blythe an' witty, An' be as canty As ye were nine years less than thretty, Sweet ane an' twenty! But stooks are cowpett wi' the blast, An' quat my chanter; Sae I subscribe mysel in haste, Yours, Rab the Ranter. Browster wives-alehouse wives. + 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, TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH, Inclosing a copy of Holy Willie's Prayer, which he had requested. Sept. 17th, 1785. While at the stook the shearers cow'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, Lest they should blame her, An' rouse their holy thunder on it And anathem her. I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy, Wha, if they ken me, Can easy, wi' a single wordie, Louse h-ll upon me. But I gae mad at their grimaces, Whaws greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces Waur nor their nonsense. The lasses loup as they were daft, * Gulravage-Running in a confused, disorderly manner, like boys when leaving school. There's Gaun, miska't waur than a beast, 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, An' shall his fame an' honour bleed By worthless skellums, An' not a muse erect her head To cowe the blellums? O Pope, had I thy satire's darts Their jugglin' hocus pocus arts To cheat the crowd. God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be, An atheist clean, Than under gospel colours hid be Just for a screen. An honest man may like a lass, An' then cry zeal for gospel laws, Like some we ken. They take religion in their mouth; Gavin Hamilton, esq. The poet has introduced the two first lines of this stanza into the dedication of his works to Mr. Hamilton. |