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Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks; An' monie a fallow gat 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 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-ligbt fair avow,
Just quite barefac'd.

Nae

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

Wi' girnin spite, To hear the Moon sae 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' see them right.

Guid observation they will gie them; An' when the auld Moon's gaun to lea'e them, The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi’ them,

Just i’ their pouch, An' when the new-light billies see them, I think they'll crouch!

Sae,

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

Your dreams * an' tricks Will send you, Korah-like, a-linkin, Straught to auld Nick's.

Ye

* A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the country-side.

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' seen thro'.

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,
Its just the Blue gown badge an' claithing
O’Saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naithing

To ken them by,
Frae ony unregenerate Heathen
Like you or I.

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