EPISTLE TO J. R***** ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. OROUGH, rude, ready-witted R****** 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, 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, But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, Its just the blue-gown badge an' claithing O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething To ken them by, Frae ony unregenerate heathen Like you or I. * A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the country-side. I've sent you here some rhyming ware, A' that I bargain'd for an' mair; 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 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 paitrick 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-ma-care! Somebody tells the poacher-court The hale affair. Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note, That sic 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. A song he had promised the Author. But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, The game shall pay I vow an' swear! o'er moor an' dale, For this, niest year. As soon's the clockin-time is 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 ay as mad's a hare; When time's expedient: Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, Your most obedient. T2 JOHN BARLEYCORN,* A BALLAD. I. THERE was three kings into the east, 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 cheerful spring came kindly on, And show'rs began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again, IV. The sultry suns of summer came, And he grew thick and strong, V. The sober autumn enter'd mild, When he grew wan and pale; This is partly composed on the plan of an old song known -by the same name. 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. VII. They've taen a weapon, long and sharp, And cut him by the knee; Then ty'd him fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgerie. VIII. They laid him down upon his back, IX. They filled up a darksome pit X.. They laid him out upon the floor, |