An' monie a fallow gat his licks,

Wi' hearty crunt;

An' fome, to learn them for their tricks,
Were hang'd an' brunt.

This game was play'd in monie lands,
An' auld-light caddies bure fic hands,
That faith, the youngsters took the fands
Wi' nimble shanks,

Till Lairds forbad, by ftrict commands,
Sic bluidy pranks.

But new-light herds gat fic a cowe, Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an-ftowe,

Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe

Ye'll find ane plac'd;

An' fome, their New-light fair avow,

Juft quite barefac'd..

Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatan; Their zealous herds are vex'd an' fweatan;

Myfel, I've ev'n seen them greetan

Wi' girnan spite,

To hear the Moon fae fadly lie'd on

By word an' write.

But shortly they will cowe the louns!
Some auld-light herds in neebor towns
Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons,
To tak a flight,

An' stay ae month amang the Moons
An' fee them right.

Guid obfervation they will gie them; An' when the auld Moon's gaun to le'ae them, The hindmoft haird, they'll fetch it wi' them, Juft i' their pouch,

An' when the new-light billies fee them,

I think they'll crouch!

Sae, ye obferve that a' this clatter
Is naething but a 'moonshine matter;'
But tho' dull profe-folk latin splatter

In logie tulzie,

I hope we, Bardies, ken fome better

Than mind fic brulzie.

D d

1

EPISTLE TO J. R** *

ENCLOSING SOME POEM S.

Rough, rude, ready-witted R****** The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin! There's monie godly folks are thinkin,

Your dreams* an' tricks

Will fend you, Korah-like, a sinkin,

Straught to auld Nick's.

Ye hae fae monie cracks an' cants, And in your wicked, druken rants,

Ye mak a devil o' the Saunts,

An' fill them fou;

And then their failings, flaws an' wants,

Are a' feen thro'.

* A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noife in the world.

Hypocrify, in mercy spare it! That holy robe, O dinna tear it!

Spare't for their fakes wha aften wear it,

The lads in black;

But your curft wit, when it comes near it,
Rives't aff their back.

Think, wicked Sinner, wha ye're skaithing:
It's juft the Blue-gown badge an' claithing,
O' Saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething,
To ken them by,

Frae ony unregenerate Heathen,

I've fent you here, fome rhymin ware,

A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair;

Sae when ye hae an hour to spare,

I will expect,

Yon Sang* ye'll fen't, wi' cannie care,

And no neglect.

Tho' faith, fma' heart hae I to fing! My Muse dow scarcely spread her wing: D d 2

* A Song he had promised the Author.

An' brought a Paitrick to the grun',

A bonie ben,

And, as the twilight was begun,

Thought nane wad ken.

The

poor, wee thing was little hurt ;

I ftraiket it a wee for sport,

Ne'er thinkan they wad fash me for't;

But, Deil-ma-care!

Somebody tells the Poacher-Court,

The hale affair.

Some auld, uf'd hands had taen a note,

That fic a hen had got a shot ;

I was fufpected for the plot;

I fcorn'd to lie;