Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes,
He swept the stakes awa', man,
Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race,
Led him a sair faux pas, man:1
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads,b
On Chatham's boy did ca', man;
An' Scotland drew her pipe an' blew,
"Up, Willie, waur them a', man!"
Behind the throne then Granville's gone,
A secret word or twa, man;
While sleed Dundas arous'd the class
Be-north the Roman wa', man :
An' Chatham's wraith, in heav'nly graith,'
(Inspired bardies saw, man),
Wi' kindling eyes, cry'd, "Willie, rise!
Would I hae fear'd them a', man?"
But, word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co.
Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man ;
Till Suthron raise, an' coost their claise
Behind him in a raw, man:
An' Caledon threw by the drone,
An' did her whittle' draw, man;
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' bluid,
To mak it guid in law, man.
I hae been in for't ance or twice,
And winna say o'er far for thrice;
Yet never met wi' that surprise
That broke my rest;
But now a rumour's like to rise-
A whaup's i' the nest!
Epistle to John Rankine.1
O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine,
The waleb o' cocks for fun an' drinkin!
There's mony godly folks are thinkin,
Your dreams 2 and tricks
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin
Straught to auld Nick's.
Ye hae sae mony cracks an' cants,
And in your wicked, drucken rants,
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts,
An' fill them fou°:
And then their failings, flaws, an' wants,
Are a' seen thro'.
Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!
That holy robe, O dinna tear it!
Spare't for their sakes, wha aften wear it—
The lads in black;
But your curst wit, when it comes near it,
Rives d't aff their back.
Think, wicked Sinner, wha ye're skaithing:"
It's just the Blue-gown badge an' claithing
O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething
To ken them by
Frae ony unregenerate heathen,
Like you or I.
I've sent you here some rhyming ware,
A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair;
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare,
I will expect,
Yon sang1 ye'll sen't, wi' cannie care,
And no neglect.
Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing!
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing;
I've play'd mysel a bonie spring,d
An' danc'd my fill!
I'd better gaen an' sair't the king,
At Bunker's Hill.
'Twas ae night lately, in my fun,
I gaed a rovin wi' the gun,
An' brought a paitrick to the grun’—
A bonie hen;
And, as the twilight was begun,
Thought nane wad ken.
Some auld, us'd hands had taen a note,
That sic a hen had got a shot;
I was suspected for the plot;
I scorn'd to lie;
So gat the whissle o' my groat,
An' pay't the fee.
But by my gun, o' guns the wale,
An' by my pouther an' my hail,
An' by my hen, an' by her tail,
I vow an' swear!
shall
pay, o'er muir an' dale,
For this, neist year.
As soon's the clockin-time is by,
An' the wee pouts begun to cry,
Lord, I'se hae sporting by an' by
For my gowd guinea,
Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye
For't in Virginia.
Trowth, they had muckle for to blame!
'Twas neither broken wing nor limb,
But twa-three draps about the wame,d
Scarce thro' the feathers;
An' baith a yellow George to claim,
An' thole their blethers!
It pits me aye as mad's a hare;
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;
But pennyworths again is fair,
When time's expedient:
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,
A Poet's Welcome to his Love-begotten Daughter.1
THE FIRST INSTANCE THAT ENTITLED HIM TO THE VENERABLE
APPELLATION OF FATHER.
THOU's Welcome, wean; mishanter fa'a me,
If thoughts o' thee, or yet thy mamie,
Shall ever daunton me or awe me,
My bonie lady,
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me
Tyta or daddie.
Tho' now they ca' me fornicator,
An' tease my name in kintry clatter,
The mair they talk, I'm kent the better,
E'en let them clash;
An auld wife's tongue's a feckless a matter
To gie ane fash.
Welcome! my bonie, sweet, wee dochter,
Tho' ye come here a wee unsought for,
And tho' your comin' I hae fought for,
Baith kirk and queir£;
Yet, by my faith, ye're no unwrought for,
That I shall swear!
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