EPISTLES IN VERSE. TO J. LAPRAIK. Sept. 13th, 1785. GUID speed an' furder to you Johny, The staff o' bread, May ye ne'er want a stoup o' brany To clear your head. May boreas never thresh your rigs, Like drivin' wrack; But may the tapmast grain that wags Come to the sack. I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it, Wi' muckle wark, An' took my jocteleg* an' whatt it, Like ony clark. Jocteleg a knife. It's now twa month 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, 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' theckit 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 year less than thretty, Sweet ane an' twenty! * Browster wives-Alehouse wives. But stooks are cowpet* wi' the blast, An' quat my chanter; Sae I subscribe mysel in haste, Your's, Rab the Ranter.† TO THE REV. JOHN M‹MATH, 1 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 guiravage‡ riņnin scow'r To pass the time, Το 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. * 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, My name is Rab the Ranter; Gulravage-Running in a confused, disorderly manner, like boys when leaving school. 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 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' honor 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. * Gavin Hamilton, Esq. The poet has introduced the two first lines of this stanza into the dedication of his works to Mr. Hamilton. God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be, An atheist clean, Than under gospel colors 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. They take religion in their mouth; On some puir wight, All hail, religion! maid divine! Thus daurs to name thee; To stigmatize false friends of thine Can ne'er defame thee. Tho' blotch't an' foul wi' mony a stain, With trembling voice I tune my strain To join with those, Who boldly dare thy cause maintain In spite of foes: In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, At worth an' merit, By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, But hellish spirit. |