May Boreas never thresh your rigs, But may the tapmast grain that wags I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it, An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it, It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, On holy men, While Deil a hair yoursel ye're better, But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, But browster wives an' whisky stills, Your friendship, sir, I winna quat it, Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it, An' when wi' usquebae we've wat it But if the beast and branks be spar'd An' theekit right, I mean your ingle-side to guard Ae winter night. 40 39 20 ΙΟ Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitae Shall make us baith sae blithe an' witty, As ye were nine years less than thretty,- But stooks are cowpit wi' the blast, Then I maun rin amang the rest An' quit my chanter; Sae I subscribe mysel in haste, Yours, Rab the Ranter. 50 TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH. ENCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER, WHICH HE WHILE at the stook the shearers cow'r Or in gulravage rinnin' scour; 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' douce black bonnet, Lest they shou'd blame her, I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy, Wha, if they ken me, Can easy, wi' a single wordie, Lowse hell upon me. 10 But I gae mad at their grimaces, Their sighin', cantin', grace-proud faces, Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces There's Gawn, misca't waur than a beast, Wha sae abus'd him: An' may a bard no crack his jest 20 What way they've used him? 30 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 glass, He'll still disdain, An' then cry zeal for gospel laws, Like some we ken. 40 50 They tak religion in their mouth; On some puir wight, An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth, All hail, Religion, maid divine! Thus daurs to name thee; To stigmatize false friends of thine Can ne'er defame thee. Tho' blotcht an' foul wi' mony a stain, To join wi' those, Who boldly daur thy cause maintain In spite o' foes: In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, In spite o' dark banditti stabs At worth an' merit, By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, O Ayr, my dear, my native ground! A candid lib'ral band is found Of public teachers, As men, as Christians too, renown'd, An' manly preachers. Sir, in that circle you are nam'd, An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd, (Which gies you honour) Even, sir, by them your heart's esteem'd, An' winning manner. 60 70 80 90 Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye, But to his utmost would befriend Ought that belang'd ye. TO JAMES SMITH. DEAR Smith, the sleeest pawkie thief Owre human hearts; For me, I swear by sun an' moon, Mair taen I'm wi' you. That auld capricious carlin', Nature, And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature, Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme, Wi' hasty summon : Hae ye a leisure-moment's time To hear what's comin'? ΙΟ 20 |