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,

The 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,

1

Just quite barefac❜d.

Nae

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 a 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 sic brulzie.

EPISTLE

EPISTLE

ΤΟ

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

A certain humorous dream of his was then making

a noise in the country-side.

Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, And in your wicked, drucken 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!
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 naething To ken them by,

Frae ony unregenerate heathen

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

VOL. III.

S

Sae

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

-I'd better gaen an' sair'd the king

fill!

At Bunker's Hill.

'Twas ae night lately in my fun, I gaed a roving wi' the gun, An' brought a paitrick to the grun,

* A song he had promised to the Author.

The