Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me, When winds rave thro' the naked tree; Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary gray; Or blinding drifts wild furious flee, O Nature! a' thy shews an forms Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, O, sweet to stray an' pensive ponder The warly race may drudge an' drive, Shall let the busy, grumbling hive Fareweel, "my rhyme-composing brither!” We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither; Now let us lay our heads thegither, In love fraternal: May Envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend, infernal' While Highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes, Diurnal turns, Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, POSTSCRIPT. My memory's no worth a preen; Ye bade me write you what they mean 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae beer In days when mankind were but callans They took nae pains their speech to balance But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallians, In thae auld times, they thought the moon Gaed past their viewin'; An' shortly after she was done, They gat a new one. * New Light, a cant phrase, in the West of Scotland, for those relige yous opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich, defended so strenuously. This past for certain, undisputed; An' muckle din there was about it, Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, An' backlins-comin, to the leuk, She grew mair bright. This was denied, it was affirm'd; Should think they better were inform'd Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; Wi' hearty crunt; An' some, to learn them for their tricks, This game was play'd in monie lands, Till airds forbade, by strict commands, 183 But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, Ye'll find ane plac'd; An' some, their new-light fair avow, Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin; To hear the moon sae sadly lied on, But snortly they will cowe the louns; An' stay ae month amang the moons, Guid observation they will gie them, An' wher the new-light billies see them, Sae ye observe that a' this clatter Is naething but a "moonshine matter;" I hope we bardies ken some better A EPISTLE TO J. R****** ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. OɔUGн, rude, ready-witted R****** Will send you, Korah-like, a sinkin, Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, And fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it! That holy robe, O dinna tear it! Spar't for their sakes wha aften wear it, But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, * A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the Country-side. |