It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, Abusin' me for harsh ill nature

On holy men,

While deil a hair yoursel' ye're better,
But mair profane.

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells,
Let's sing about our noble sel's ;
We'el cry nae jads frae heathen hills
To help, or roose us,
But browster wives and whiskey stills,
They are the muses.

Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it,
And if ye mak objections at it,
Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it,
And witness take,

And when wi' usqueba we've wat it,
It winna break.

But if the beast and branks be spar'd
Till kye be gaun without the herd,
And a' the vittel in the yard,

And theekit right,

I mean your ingle-side to guard
Ae winter night.

Then muse-inspirin' aqua vitæ
Shall make us baith sae blythe and witty
Till ye forget ye're auld and gatty,

And be as canty

But I gae mad at their grimaces,

153

Their sighin', cantin', grace-proud faces, Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces, Their raxin' conscience,

Whase greed, revenge, and pride disgraces,
Waur nor their nonsense.

There's Gawn (168), misca't waur than a beast,
Wha has mair honour in his breast
Than mony scores as guid's the priest
Wha sae abus't him.

And may a bard no crack his jest

What way they've use't him? See him, the poor man's friend in need, The gentleman in word and deed, And shall his fame and honour bleed By worthless skellums, And not a muse erect her head

To cowe the blellums?

Oh, Pope, had I thy satire's darts
To gie the rascals their deserts,
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts,
And tell aloud

Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts

To cheat the crowd.

God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be,
Nor am I even the thing I cou'd be,
But twenty times I rather wou'd be
An atheist clean,
Then under gospel colours hid be
Just for a screen.

An honest man may like a glass,
An honest man may like a lass,
But mean revenge, and malice fause,
He'll still disdain,
And then cry zeal for gospel laws,
Like some we ken,

They take religion in their mouth;
They talk o' mercy, grace, and truth,
For what?-to gie their malice skouth
On some puir wight,
And hunt him down, o'er right and ruth,
To ruin straight.

All hail, Religion! maid divine!
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine,
Who in her rough imperfect line,

Thus daurs to name thee;
To stigmatise false friends of thine
Can ne'er defame thee.
Tho' blotch't and foul wi' mony a stain,
And far unworthy of thy train,

With trembling voice I tune my strain
To join with those

Who boldly daur thy cause maintain

In spite o' foes:

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, In spite o' undermining jobs,

In spite o' dark banditti stabs
At worth andrit
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes,
But hellish spite.

Oh Ayr! my dear, my native ground,
Within thy presbyterial bound
A candid lib'ral band is found

Of public teachers,

As men, as Christians too, renown'd,
And manly preachers.

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd;
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd;
And some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd
(Which gies you honour),

Ev'n Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd,
And winning manner.

Pardon this freedom I have ta’en,
And if impertinent I've been,
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye,

But to his utmost would befriend
Ought that belang'd ye.

The American War,
A FRAGMENT. (169)

WHEN Guildford good our pilot stood,
And did our helm thraw, man,
Ae night, at tea, began a plea,
Within America, man:
Then up they gat the maskin'-pat,
And in the sea did jaw, man;
And did nae less, in full Congress,
Than quite refuse our law, man.
Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes,
I wat he was na slaw, man;
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn,
And Carleton did ca' man;
But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec,
Montgomery-like did fa', man,
Wi' sword in hand, before his band,
Amang his en'mies a', man.
Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage,
Was kept at Boston ha', man;
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe
For Philadelphia, man:

Wi' sword and gun he thought a sin
Guid Christian blood to draw, man :
But at New York, wi' knife and fork,
Sir-loin he hacked sma', man.
Burgoyne gaed up, like spur and whip,
Till Fraser brave did fa', man;
Then lost his way, ae misty day,
In Saratoga shaw, man.
Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought,
And did the buckskins claw, man;
But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save,
He hung it to the wa', man.

Then Montague, and Guildford, too,
Began to fear a fa’, man;
And Sackville dour, wha stood the stoure,
The German Chief to thraw, mau;
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk,
Nae mercy had at a', man;
And Charlie Fox threw by the box,
And lows'd his tinkler jaw, man.

Then Rockingham took up the game,
Till death did on him ca', man ;
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek,
Conforin to gospel law, man;

Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise,
They did his measures thraw, man,
For North and Fox united stocks,

And bore him to the wa', man.

Then clubs and hearts were Charlie's cartes,
He swept the stakes awa', man,
Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race,
Led him a sair faux pas, man;
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads,

On Chatham's boy did ca', man;
And Scotland drew her pipe, and blew,
"Up, Willie, waur them a', man!”
Behind the throne then Grenville's gon
A secret word or twa, man;
While slee Dundas arous'd the class,
Be-north the Roman wa', man;
And Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith,
(Inspired Bardies saw, man)

Wi' kindling eyes cry'd, "Willie, rise!
Would I hae fear'd them a', man ?"

But, word and blow, North, Fox, and Co.,
Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man,

Till Suthron raise, and coost their claise
Behind him in a raw, man;

And Caledon threw by the drone,

And did her whittle draw, man;
And swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt and blood,
To make it guid in law, man. (170)

Second Epistle to Davie,

A BROTHER POET.

AULD NEIBOR,

I'm three times doubiy o'er your debtor,
For your auld-farrant, frien'ly letter;
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter,
Ye speak sae fair,
For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter
Some less maun sair.
Hale be your heart, hale be your
fiddle:
Lang may your elbock jink and diddle,
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle
O' war❜ly cares,
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle
Your auld, gray hairs.

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o’livin'
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin';
But just the pouchie put the nieve in,
And while ought's there,
Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin',
And fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it's aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure,
At hame, a-fiel', at wark, or leisure,

The Muse, poor hizzie!

Tho' rough and raploch be her measure,
She's seldom lazy.

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie:
The warl' may play you monie a shavie;
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye,
Tho' e'er sae puir,

Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie
Frae door to door.

To Ruin.

ALL hail! inexorable lord!

At whose destruction-breathing word
The mightiest empires fall!
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train,
The ministers of grief and pain,
A sullen welcome, all!

With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye,
I see each aimed dart!

For one has cut my dearest tie,

And quivers in my heart.

The First Six Verses of the Ninetieth
Psalm.

OH Thou, the first, the greatest friend
Of all the human race!

Whose strong right hand has ever been
Their stay and dwelling place!

Before the mountains heav'd their heads,
Beneath Thy forming hand,

Before this ponderous globe itself
Arose at Thy command;

That Pow'r which raised and still upholds
This universal frame,

From countless, unbeginning time

Was ever still the same.

Those mighty periods of years

Which seem to us so vast, Appear no more before Thy sight Than yesterday that's past.

Thou giv'st the word: Thy creature, man,
Is to existence brought;

Again Thou say'st, "Ye sons of men,
Return ye into nought!

Thou layest them with all their cares
In everlasting sleep;

As with a flood Thou tak'st them off
With overwhelming sweep,

They flourish like the morning flow'r,
In beauty's pride array'd;
But long here night, cut down, it lies
All wither'd and decay'd.

The First Psalm.

THE man, in life wherever plac'd, Hath happiness in store,

Who walks not in the wicked's way, Nor learns their guiltý lore!