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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-an-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, drunken 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!

A certain humorous dream of his was then

making a noise in the country-side.

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, It's 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.

I've sent you here some rhyming ware, A' that I bargain'd for an' mair;

Sae, whan 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' dane'd my fill!

I'd better gaen an' sair'd 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,

And, 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-me-care!

Somebody tells the poacher-court

The hale affair.

A song he had promised the author.

Some auld us'd hands had taen a note, That sie 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,

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 begin to cry,
L-d, l'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 aye as mad's a hare;
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;
But pennyworths again is fair,

When time's expedient;

Meantime 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,

And they hae sworn a solemn oath.

John Barleycorn was dead.

III.

But the chearful 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.

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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.

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

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