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An’monie a fallow got his licks

Wi' hearty crunt; An' some, 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 sands

Wi' nimble shanks, Till Lairds forbade, by strict commands

Sic bluidy pranks.

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe,
Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an-ftowe,
Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe

Ye'll find ane placd;
An' some their new-light fair avow,

Just quite barefac'a.

Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin; Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin ; Mysel, I've even seen them greetin

Wi'girnin spite,
To hear the Moon sae fadly lied 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,

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An' stay ae month amang the Moons,

An' fee them right.

Guid obfervation they wilt gie them, An' when the auld Moon's gaun to lea'e them, The hindmost fhaird, they'll fetch it wi' them,

Just i' their pouch, An' when the new-light billies see them,

I think they'll crouch!

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter
Is naething but a ' moonshine matter;
But tho’ dull prose-folk Latin splatter

In logic tulzie,
I hope, we Bardies ken some better

Than mind fic brulzie:

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

Your dreains * an' tricks
Will send you, Korah-like, a-fakin,

Straught to auld Nick's,

Ye hae fre monie cracks an' cants, And in your wicked, drunken rants, Ye mak a devil o'the Saunts,

Au’ fill them fou; And then their failings, fiaws, an’ wants,

Are a' seen thro'.

* A certain bumorous dream of his pas then malsing 2 Avile in the country-side.

Hypocrisy 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 curst wit, when it comes near it,

Rives't aff their back.

Think, wicked Sinner, wha ye're skaithing, Is just the Blue-gown badge an' claithing O' Saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naithing

To kea them by, Frae ony unregenerate Heathen,


you or I.

I've sent you here some rhyming ware,
A’ that I bargain’d for, an' mair:
Sae, when you hae an hour to spare,

I will expect,
Yon Cang* ye'll sen't wi' cannie care,

And no neglect.

Tho' faith, {ma' heart hae I to fing! My Muse dow scarcely spread her wing: I've play'd mysel a bonie spring,

An' danc'd my fill ! I'd better gaen an' sair't the king,

At Bunker's Hill.

* A Song he had promised the Author.

'Twas ae night lately, in my fun; I gaed a roving wi’ the gun, An' brought a Paitrick to the grun',

Abonie hen, And, as the twilight was begun,

Thought nane wad ken,

The poor, wee thing was little hurt;
I straikit it a wee for sport,
Ne'er thinkin they wad falh me fort ;

But, Deil-ma-care !
Somebody tells the Poacher-court

The hale affair.

Some auld, us'd hands had ta'en a note,
That sic a ben 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'g!ins the wale,
An' by my pouther an' my hail,
An' by my hen, an' by her tail,

I vow an' swear!
The Game shall pay, o'er moor an' dale,

For this, niest year.

As soon's the clockin-time is by, An' the wee pouts begun to cry,

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