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 sic brulzie.

EPISTLE TO J. R*

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS.

O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted R******
The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin'!
There's mony 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;

A certain humourous dream of his was then making a noise

in the country-side.

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,

But

The lads in black!

your curst wit, when it comes near it, Rives't aff their back.

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

Frae ony unregenerate heathen

Like you or I.

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' sair'd the king

VOL. III.

At Bunker's Hill.

*A song he had promised to the Author.

K

"Twas ae night lately in my fun, I gaed a roving wi' the gun,

An' brought a paitrick to the grun,
A bonnie hen;

And, as the 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 noté,

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.

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, An' by my pouther an' my hail,

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

The

I vow an' swear!

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 sporitn 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.

JOHN BARLEYCORN, *

A BALLAD.

I.

THERE was three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high;
An' they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

II.

They took a plough and plough'd him down,
Put clods upon his head;

This is partly composed on the plan of an old song known by the same name.

And they have sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.

III.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on,
And show'rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surpris'd them all.

IV.

The sultry suns of summer came,
And he grew thick and strong;
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

v.

The sober autumn enter'd mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head,
Show'd he began to fail.

VI.

His colour sicken'd more and more,

He faded into age;

And then his enemies began

To shew their deadly rage.

VII.

They've taen a weapon long and sharp,

And cut him by the knee;

Then ty'd him fast upon a cart,

Like a rogue for forgerie.