May Boreas never thresh your rigs,
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' hags
Like drivin' wrack;

But may the tapmast grain that wags
Come to the sack.

I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it,
But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it;
Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it
Wi' muckle wark,

An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it,
Like ony clerk.

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 sels;
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills
To help, or roose us,

But browster wives an' whisky stills,
They are the Muses.

Your friendship, sir, I winna quat it,
An' if ye make objections at it,

Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it,
An' witness take,

An' when wi' usquebae we've wat it
It winna break.

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

An' theekit right,

I mean your ingle-side to guard

Ae winter night.

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ΙΟ

Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitae

Shall make us baith sae blithe an' witty,
Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty,
An' be as canty

As ye were nine years less than thretty,-
Sweet ane an' twenty!

But stooks are cowpit wi' the blast,
An' now the sinn keeks in the west,

Then I maun rin amang the rest

An' quit my chanter;

Sae I subscribe mysel in haste,

Yours, Rab the Ranter.

50

TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH.

ENCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER, WHICH HE
HAD REQUESTED.

WHILE at the stook the shearers cow'r
To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r,

Or in gulravage rinnin' scour;

To pass the time,

To you I dedicate the hour

In idle rhyme.

My Musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet

On gown, an' ban', an' douce black bonnet,
Is grown right eerie now she's done it,

Lest they shou'd blame her,
An' rouse their holy thunder on it,
And anathem her.

I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy,
That I, a simple country bardie,
Shou'd meddle wi' a pack so sturdy,

Wha, if they ken me,

Can easy, wi' a single wordie,

Lowse hell upon me.

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But I gae mad at their grimaces,

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

Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces
Waur nor their nonsense.

There's Gawn, misca't waur than a beast,
Wha has mair honour in his breast
Than mony scores as guid's the priest

Wha sae abus'd him:

An' may a bard no crack his jest

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What way they've used him? 30

See him the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word an' deed,

An' shall his fame an' honour bleed

By worthless skellums,

An' not a Muse erect her head

To cowe the blellums?

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts
To gie the rascals their deserts,
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts,
An' 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 could be,
But, twenty times, I rather would be

An atheist clean,

Than 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, an' malice fause,

He'll still disdain,

An' then cry zeal for gospel laws,

Like some we ken.

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50

They tak religion in their mouth;
They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth,
For what? to gie their malice skouth

On some puir wight,

An' hunt him down, o'er right an' 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 stigmatize false friends of thine

Can ne'er defame thee.

Tho' blotcht an' foul wi' mony a stain,
An' far unworthy of thy train,
Wi' trembling voice I tune my strain

To join wi' those,

Who boldly daur thy cause maintain

In spite o' foes:

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

In spite o' dark banditti stabs

At worth an' merit,

By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes,
But hellish spirit.

O 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,

An' manly preachers.

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd,
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd;

An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd,

(Which gies you honour)

Even, sir, by them your heart's esteem'd,

An' winning manner.

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Pardon this freedom I have ta'en,
An' 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.

TO JAMES SMITH.

DEAR Smith, the sleeest pawkie thief
That e'er attempted stealth or rief,
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef

Owre human hearts;
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief
Against your arts.

For me, I swear by sun an' moon,
And ev'ry star that blinks aboon,
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon
Just gaun to see you;
And ev'ry ither pair that's done,

Mair taen I'm wi' you.

That auld capricious carlin', Nature,
To mak amends for scrimpit stature,
She's turn'd you aff, a human creature
On her first plan,

And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature,
She's wrote "The Man.'

Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme,
My barmie noddle's working prime,
My fancie yerkit up sublime

Wi' hasty summon :

Hae ye a leisure-moment's time

To hear what's comin'?

ΙΟ

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