But now the L-'s ain trumpet touts,
Till a' the hills are rairin,
And echoes back return the shouts;
Black Russell is na sparin:

His piercin words, like Highlan' swords,
Divide the joints an' marrow;

His talk o' Hell, whare devils dwell,
Our vera" sauls does harrow"

Wi' fright that day!

A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit,
Fill'd fou o' lowin brunstane,
Whase raging flame, an' scorching heat,
Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!

The half-asleep start up wi' fear,
An' think they hear it roarin;
When presently it does appear,
'Twas but some neibor snorin
Asleep that day.

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell,
How mony stories past;
An' how they crouded to the yill,
When they were a' dismist;
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups,
Amang the furms an' benches;

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,
Frae side to side they bother;

Till some ane by his bonnet lays,
An' gies them't, like a tether,

Fu' lang that day.

Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,
Or lasses that hae naething!
Sma' need has he to say a grace,
Or melvie his braw claithing!
O wives, be mindfu' ance yoursel'
How bonie lads ye wanted;
An' dinna for a kebbuck-heel
Let lasses be affronted

On sic a day!

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin tow,

Begins to jow an' croon;

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

As saft as ony flesh is:

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
Some ither day.

THIRD EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK

GUID speed and furder to you, Johnie,
Guid health, hale han's an' weather bonie;
Now, when ye're nickin down fu' cannie
The staff o' bread,

May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y
To clear your head.

May Boreas never thresh your rigs,
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,
Sendin the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs
Like drivin wrack;

But may the tapmost grain that wags
Come to the sack.

I'm bizzie, too, an' skelpin at it,
But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it;
Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it
Wi' muckle wark,

An' took my jocteleg an whatt it,
Like ony clark.

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 mair profane.

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells,
Let's sing about our noble sel's:
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills
To help, or roose us;
But browster wives an' whisky stills,
They are the muses.

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
Till kye be gaun without the herd,
And a' the vittel in the yard,

An' theekit right,

I mean your ingle-side to guard

Ae winter night.

Then muse-inspirin aquavitæ

Shall make us baith sae blythe and witty,
Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty,

An' be as canty

As ye were nine years less than thretty-
Sweet ane an' twenty!

But stooks are cowpit wi' the blast,
And now the sinn keeks in the west,
Then I maun rin amang the rest,

An' quat my chanter;

Sae I subscribe mysel' in haste,

Sept. 13, 1785.

Yours, Rab the Ranter.

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

On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet,
Is grown right eerie now she's done it,
Lest they should blame her,

An' rouse their holy thunder on it
And anathem her.

I own 'twash rash, an' rather hardy,
That I a simple, country bardie,
Should meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy,
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
Waur nor their nonsense.

There's Gaw'n, misca'd waur than a beast,
Wha has mair honour in his breast
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,
The gentleman in word an' deed-

An' shall his fame an' honour bleed
By worthless skellums,

An' not a muse erect her head

To cowe the blellums?

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts
To gie the rascals their deserts,
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts,
An' tell aloud

Their jugglin hocus-pocus arts

To cheat the crowd.

God knows, I'm no the thing I should be,
Nor am I even the thing I could be,
But twenty times I rather would be
An atheist clean,

Than under gospel colours hid be
Just for a screen.

An honest man may like a glass,
An honest man may like a lass,
But mean revenge, an' malice fause
He'll still disdain,

An' then cry zeal for gospel laws,
Like some we ken.