The auld guidmen, about the grace, Fu' lang that day. Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass, How bonie lads An' dinna for a kebbuck-heel Let lasses be affronted On sic a day! Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin tow, Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, For crack that day. How mony hearts this day converts O' sinners and o' lasses! Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane There's some are fou o' brandy; An' mony jobs that day begin, May end in houghmagandie The day's results The real THIRD EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK. Muses GUID speed and furder to you, Johnie, May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y May Boreas never thresh your rigs, But may the tapmost grain that wags I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin at it, An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it, It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, On holy men, While deil a hair yoursel' ye're better, But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, But browster wives an' whisky stills, Your friendship, sir, I winna quat it, Then hand in neive some day we'll knot it, An' when wi' usquabae we've wat it, It winna break. But if the beast an' branks be spar'd An' theekit right, I mean your ingle-side to guard Then muse-inspirin aquavitæ Shall make us baith sae blythe and witty, As ye were nine An' be as canty years less than thretty- But stooks are cowpit wi' the blast, An' quat my chanter; Sae I subscribe mysel' in haste, A night with Lapraik Yours, Rab the Ranter. Sept. 13, 1785. EPISTLE TO THE REV. JOHN M.MATH, INCLOSING A COPY OF "HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER," WHICH HE HAD REQUESTED. SEPT. 17, 1785. WHILE at the stook the shearers cow'r My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet Lest they should blame her, I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy, Wha, if they ken me, Can easy, wi' a single wordie, Lowse hell upon me. But I gae mad at their grimaces, Their sighin, cantin, grace-proud faces, Their three-mile prayers, an' half-mile graces, Their raxin conscience, Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces There's Gaw'n, misca'd waur than a beast, Than mony scores as guid's the priest Wha sae abus'd him : And may a bard no crack his jest What way they've us'd him? See him, the poor man's friend in need, An' shall his fame an' honour bleed An' not a muse erect her head To cowe the blellums? O Pope, had I thy satire's darts Their jugglin hocus-pocus arts To cheat the crowd. God knows, I'm no the thing I should be, Than under gospel colours hid be An honest man may like a glass, An' then cry zeal for gospel laws, They take religion in their mouth; An' hunt him down, owre right and ruth, All hail, Religion! maid divine! Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, on the clerical party |