See, up he's got the word o' God, Fast, fast that day. Wee Miller' neist the guard relieves, An' Orthodoxy raibles, Tho' in his heart he weel believes, So, cannilie he hums them; Like hafflins-wise o'ercomes him At times that day. Now, butt an' ben, the change-house fills, An' there the pint-stowp clatters; Wi' logic an' wi' scripture, Is like to breed a rupture O' wrath that day. Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair It never fails, on drinkin deep, By night or day. The lads an' lasses, blythely bent To mind baith saul an' body, 6 A street so called which faces the tent in Mauchline.-R. B. 7 Rev. Alex. Miller, afterward of Kilmaurs. On this ane's dress, an' that ahe's leuk, They're makin observations; While some are cozie i' the neuk, An' forming assignations To meet some day. But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts, Till a' the hills are rairin, And echoes back return the shouts; His piercin words, like Highlan' swords, Our vera "sauls does harrow" Wi' fright that day! A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, "Twad be owre lang a tale to tell, How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, Was dealt about in lunches An' dawds that day. In comes a gawsie, gash guidwife, An' sits down by the fire, Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife; The lasses they are shyer: The auld guidmen, about the grace, Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass, Let lasses be affronted On sic a day! Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin tow, Some swagger hame the best they dow, Some wait the afternoon. At slaps the billies halt a blink, Till lasses strip their shoon: Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, They're a' in famous tune 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' love divine; There's some are fou o' brandy; An' mony jobs that day begin, May end in houghmagandie THIRD EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK GUID speed and furder to you, Johnie, Now, when ye're nickin down fu' cannie 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, For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, Abusin me for harsh ill-nature 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, An' if ye mak' objections at it, Then hand in neive some day we'll knot it, An' witness take, 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' aqua-vitæ Shall make us baith sae blythe and witty, As ye were nine years less than thretty— But stooks are cowpit wi' the blast, An' quat my chanter; Sae I subscribe mysel' in haste, 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 To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, Or in gulravage rinnin scowr To pass the time, To you I dedicate the hour In idle rhyme. My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet Lest they should blame her, An' rouse their holy thunder on it And anathem her. |