POSTSCRIPT.

My memory's no worth a preen;
I had amaist forgotten clean,

Ye bade me write you what they mean
By this New-Light',

'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been
Maist like to fight.

In days when mankind were but callans
At grammar, logic, an' sic talents,

They took nae pains their speech to balance,
Or rules to gie,

But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans,

Like

you or me.

In thae auld times, they thought the moon,
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon,

Wore by degrees, till her last roon,

Gaed past their viewing,

An' shortly after she was done,

They gat a new ane.

This past for certain, undisputed;
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it,
Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it,
An' ca'd it wrang;

An' muckle din there was about it,
Baith loud and lang.

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk,
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk;
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk,
An' out o' sight,

An' backlins-comin, to the leuk,

She grew mair bright.

1 See note, p. 60.

This was deny'd, it was affirmed;
The herds an' hissels were alarm'd;
The rev'rend grey-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 placed;

An' some, their new-light fair avow,

Just quite barefac❜d.

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 lied 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 TO JOHN RANKIN,

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS.

O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankin,
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.

1 A certain humorous dream of his was then making 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,
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.

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.

2 A song he had promised the Author.

'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.

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale,
An' by my pouther an' my hail,
An' by my hen, an' by her tail,

The game shall

I vow an' swear!

pay,

o'er moor an' dale, For this, niest year.

As soon's the clockin-time is by,
An' the wee pouts begin to cry,
Lord, I'se hae sportin by an' by,

For my gowd guinea; Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye For't, in Virginia.