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' gutty,

As

ye were nine

An' be as canty

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,

Yours, Rab the Ranter.

A night with Lapraik

Sept. 13, 1785.

WHILE at the stook the shearers cow'r

To shun the bitter blaudin show'r,

My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet
On gown, an' ban', an' douce 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 'twas 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, and malice fause
He'll still disdain,

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

They take religion in their mouth;
They talk o' mercy, grace an' truth,
For what? -to gie their malice skouth
On some puir wight,

An' hunt him down, owre right and ruth,
To ruin straight.

All hail, Religion! maid divine!

Pardon a muse sae mean as mine.

on the clerical party

in the

cause of True Religion

Who in her rough imperfect line

Thus daurs to name thee;

To stigmatise false friends of thine

Can ne'er defame thee.

Tho' blotch't and foul wi' mony a stain,
An' far unworthy of thy train,

With trembling voice I tune my strain,
To join with those

Who boldly dare thy cause maintain
In spite of foes:

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs,
In spite o' undermining jobs,
In spite o' dark banditti stabs

At worth an' merit,

By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes,
But hellish spirit.

O Ayr! my dear, my native ground,
Within thy presbyterial bound

A candid liberal band is found

Of public teachers,

As men, as christians too, renown'd,
An' manly preachers.

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd;
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd;

An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd
(Which gies you honour)

Even, sir, by them your heart's esteem'd,
An' winning manner.

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en,

An' if impertinent I've been,

Impute it not, good sir, in ane

To David

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye, Sillar

But to his utmost would befriend

Ought that belang'd ye.

SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE

AULD NEIBOUR,

A BROTHER POET

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor,
For your auld-farrant, frien'ly letter;
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter,
Ye speak sae fair;

For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter

Some less maun sair.

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle,
Lang may your elbuck jink an' diddle,
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle

O' war❜ly cares;

Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle

Your auld

grey

hairs.

But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit;
I'm tauld the muse ye hae negleckit;
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be lickit

Until ye fyke;

Sic haun's as you sud ne'er be faikit,

Be hain't wha like.

For me, I'm on Parnassus brink,

Rivin the words to gar them clink;

Whiles dazed wi' love, whiles dazed wi' drink,

Wi' jads or masons;

An' whiles, but aye owre late, I think

Braw sober lessons.