Ye bade me write you what they mean In days when mankind were but callans 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 one. "New-light" is a cant phrase in the west of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has 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; The herds an' hissels were alarm'd: The reverend gray-beards raved 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' burnt. 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 every knowe, To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on But shortly they will cowe the louns! Guid observation they will gie them; An' when the new-light billies see them, Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter I hope, we bardies ken some better, Than mind sic brulzie. EPISTLE TO J. R******. ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted R**** The wale o' cocks for fun an' 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 hae sae monie cracks an' cants, And in your wicked druncken rants, Ye mak a devil o' the saunts, An' fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it! But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, Frae ony unregenerate heathen Like you or I. I've sent you home some rhyming ware, Yon sang,t ye'll sen't wi' cannie care, Though faith, sma' heart hae I to sing! My muse dow scarcely spread her wing! I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring, An' danced my fill! I'd better gane an' sair't 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 used 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 whizzle o' my groat, An' pay't the fee. A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the country side. A song he had promised the author. Of brownyis and of bogilis full is this buke. WHEN chapman billies leave the street, This truth fand honest Tam O'Shanter, O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd, sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises ! But to our tale: Ae market night, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; Care, mad to see a man sae happy, But pleasures are like poppies spread, That flit ere you can point their place; Nae man can tether time or tide; That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; Weel mounted on his gray mare Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tam skelpit on through dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet: Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; Whiles glowering round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares; Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and howlets nightly cry. By this time he was cross the ford, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; And past the birks an' meikle stane, Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck bane; And through the whins, and by the cairn, Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn; And near the thorn, aboon.the well, Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! A winnock-bunker in the east, A murderer's banes in gibbet airns; As Tammie glowr'd, amazed and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: The piper loud and louder blew ; The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark! Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans, A' plump and strapping, in their teens ; Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen! Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gien them aff my hurdies For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies. But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Lowping an' flinging on a crummock, I wonder didna turn thy stomach. But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie, (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore! But here my muse her wing maun cour; As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When, pop! she starts before their nose; Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! *It is a well known fact that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any farther than the middle of the next running stream.-It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back. Ae spring brought off her master hale, Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, SONGS. THE LEA-RIG. WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star, My ain kind dearie, O. In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, My ain kind dearie, O. The hunter lo'es the morning sun, To rouse the mountain deer, my jo, At noon the fisher seeks the glen, Along the burn to steer, my jo; It maks my heart sae cheery, O, TO MARY. TUNE "Ewe-bughts, Marion." WILL ye go to the Indies, my Mary, And leave auld Scotia's shore? Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, Across th' Atlantic's roar? O sweet grows the lime and the orange, And the apple on the pine; But a' the charms o' the Indies, Can never equal thine. I hae sworn by the heavens to my Mary, I hae sworn by the heavens to be true; And sae may the heavens forget me, When I forget my vow! O plight me your faith, my Mary, And plight me your lily-white hand; O plight me your faith, my Mary, Before I leave Scotia's strand. We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, In mutual affection to join, And curst be the cause that shall part us! The hour, and the moment o' time! MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. SHE is a winsome wee thing, I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer, And niest my heart I'll wear her, She is a winsome wee thing, How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom; As underneath their fragrant shade I clasped her to my bosom ! The golden hours on angel wings Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me, as light and life, Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, We tore oursels asunder; O pale, pale now, those rosy lips BONNIE LESLEY. O SAW ye bonnie Lesley As she gaed o'er the border ? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther. And love but her for ever; The hearts o' men adore thee. And say, "I canna wrang thee." The powers aboon will tent thee; Misfortune sha'na steer thee; Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie ! That we may brag, we hae a lass AULD ROB MORRIS. THERE'S auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld men ; He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; But O! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, O, had she been but of lower degree, I then might hae hoped she wad smiled upon me! O, how past describing had then been my bliss, As now my distraction no words can express ! DUNCAN GRAY. DUNCAN GRAY came here to woo, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, On blithe yule night when we were fou, Maggie coost her head fu' high, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd; Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, Ha, ha, &c. |