Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk,
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk;
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk,
An' out o' sight,

An' backlins-comin, to the leuk,

She grew

mair bright.

This was deny'd, it was affirm'd;
The herds an' hissels were alarm'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;
Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks;
An' monie a fallow gat his licks,

Wi' hearty crunt;

An' some, to learn them for their tricks,

Were hang'd an' brunt.

This game was play'd in monie lands,
An' auld light caddies bure sic hands,
That faith, the youngsters took the sands

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,
Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe,

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!
Some auld-light herds in neebor towns
Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons,
To tak a flight,

An' stay ae month amang the moons
An' see them right.

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
Is naething but a moonshine matter;'
But tho' dull prose-folk latin splatter

In logic tulzie,

I hope, we bardies ken some better
Than mind sie brulzie.

EPISTLE TO J. R******

INCLOSING SOME POEMS.

O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted R ****

The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin!
There's monie godly folks are thinkin,

Your dreams' an' tricks

Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin,

Straught to auld Nick's.

Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants,
And in your wicked, drucken rants,
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts,

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,
Rives't aff their back.

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing,
Its just the blue-gown badge an' claithing
O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naithing
To ken them by,

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,
A' that I bargain'd for an' mair;
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare,

I will expect,

Yon sang, ye'll sen't wi' cannie care,

And no neglect.

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing!
My Muse dow scarcely spread her wing!
I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring,

An' danc'd my fill !

I'd better gaen an' saird the king,

At Bunker's Hill.

"Twas ae night lately in my fun,
I gaed a roving wi' the gun,
An' brought a patrick to the grun,
A bonnie hen,

An' as the twilight was begun,

Thought nane wad ken.

The poor wee thing was little hurt;
I straikit it a wee for sport,

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,
That sic a hen had got a shot;

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,
An' by my pouther an' my hail,
An' by my hen, an' by her tail,

I vow an' swear!

The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale,
For this, niest year.

As soon's the clockin time is by,
An' the wee pouts begun to cry,
L-d, I'se hae sportin by an' 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;
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair ;
But pennyworths again is fair,

When time's expedient:

Meanwhile I am, respected sir,

Your most obedient.