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 plac'd;

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 touns
Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons,
To tak a flight;

An' stay ae 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 hindmaist 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 tulyie,

I hope we bardies ken some better

Than mind sic brulyie.

The
'Auld-
Lights'
have a

plot

Encour- EPISTLE TO JOHN GOLDIE, IN

agement to Goldie

KILMARNOCK.

AUTHOR OF THE GOSPEL RECOVERED.

AUGUST 1785.

O GOWDIE, terror o' the whigs,

Dread o' black coats and reverend wigs!
Sour Bigotry on his last legs

Girns an' looks back,

Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues
May seize you quick.

Poor gapin, glowrin Superstition!
Wae's me, she's in a sad condition:
Fye: bring Black Jock, her state physician,
To see her water:

Alas, there's ground for great suspicion
She'll ne'er get better.

Enthusiasm's past redemption,
Gane in a gallopin consumption :
Not a' her quacks, wi' a' their gumption,
Can ever mend her;

Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption,
She'll soon surrender.

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,
For every hole to get a stapple;
But now she fetches at the thrapple,
An' fights for breath;

Haste, gie her name up in the chapel,
Near unto death.

It's an' Taylor are the chief

you

To blame for a' this black mischief;

But, could the Lord's ain folk get leave,
A toom tar barrel

An' twa red peats wad bring relief,
And end the quarrel.

For me, my skill's but very sma',
An' skill in prose I've nane ava';
But quietlenwise, between us twa,
Weel may you speed!

And tho' they sud you sair misca',
Ne'er fash your head.

E'en swinge the dogs, and thresh them sicker!
The mair they squeel aye chap the thicker;
And still 'mang hands a hearty bicker
O' something stout;

It gars an owthor's pulse beat quicker,
And helps his wit.

There's naething like the honest nappy;
Whare'll ye e'er see men sae happy,
Or women sonsie, saft an' sappy,

'Tween morn and morn,

As them wha like to taste the drappie,
In glass or horn?

I've seen me dazed upon a time,
I scarce could wink or see a styme;
Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime,-
Ought less is little

Then back I rattle on the rhyme,

As gleg's a whittle.

in his religious crusade

The poet, invited by Fun,

THE HOLY FAIR.

A robe of seeming truth and trust
Hid crafty observation;

And secret hung, with poison'd crust,
The dirk of defamation:

A mask that like the gorget show'd,
Dye-varying on the pigeon;
And for a mantle large and broad,
He wrapt him in Religion.

HYPOCRISY A-LA-MODE.

UPON a simmer Sunday morn,
When Nature's face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,
An' snuff the caller air.

The rising sun owre Galston muirs
Wi' glorious light was glinting;
The hares were hirplin down the furrs,
The lav'rocks they were chantin
Fu' sweet that day.

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad,
To see a scene sae gay,
Three hizzies, early at the road,
Cam skelpin up the way.
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,

But ane wi' lyart lining;

The third, that gaed a wee a-back,

Was in the fashion shining

Fu' gay that day.

The twa appear'd like sisters twin,
In feature, form, an' claes;
Their visage wither'd, lang an' thin,
An' sour as ony slaes:

The third cam up, hap-stap-an'-lowp,
As light as ony lambie,

An' wi' a curchie low did stoop,

As soon as e'er she saw me,

Fu' kind that day.

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, "Sweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken me;
I'm sure I've seen that bonie face,
But yet I canna name ye."
Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak,
An' taks me by the han's,

"Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck

Of a' the ten comman's

A screed some day."

"My name is Fun-your cronie dear,

The nearest friend ye hae;
An' this is Superstition here,
An' that's Hypocrisy.

I'm gaun to Mauchline holy fair,'
To spend an hour in daffin:

Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair,

We will get famous laughin

At them this day."

Quoth I, "Wi' a' my heart, I'll do't;
I'll get my Sunday's sark on,
An' meet you on the holy spot;
Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin!
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time,
An' soon I made me ready;

For roads were clad, frae side to side,

Wi' mony a weary body

In droves that day.

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