But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, Ye'll find ane plac'd; An' some, their new-light fair avow, Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin; To hear the moon sae sadly lied on, But shortly they will cowe the louns; An' stay ae month amang the moons, Guid observation they will gie them, An' when the new-light billies see them, Sae ye observe that a' this clatter 66 Is naething but a moonshine matter;' I hope we bardies ken some better EPISTLE TO J. R**: ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted R**** Will send you, Korah-like, a sinkin, Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, And fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it! That holy robe, O dinna tear it! But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the country-side. O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething Frae ony unregen'rate heathen, I've sent you here some rhyming ware, Your sang,* ye'll sen't wi' cannie care, Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing! An' danc'd my fill! I'd better gaen an' sair'd the king, "Twas ae night, lately, in my fun, An', as the twilight was begun, The poor, wee thing was little hurt, Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't, Somebody tells the poacher-court The hale affair. A song he had promised the author. Some auld-us'd hands had taen a note That sic a hen had got a shot; was suspected for the plot; So gat the whissle o' my groat, But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, The game shall pay, o'er moor an' dale, As soon's the clockin-time is by, Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye Trowth, they had muckle for to blame! "Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame, Scarce thro' the feathers An' baith a yellow George to claim, An' thole their blethers! It pits me ay as mad's a hare; When time's expedient! Meanwhile, I am, respected sir, Your most obedient. TO DR. BLACKLOCK. ELLISLAND, OCTOBER, 21, 1789. Wow, but your letter made me vauntie! Lord send ye ay as weel's I want ye, The ill-thief blaw the Heron* south! But aiblins honest Master Heron And holy study; And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on, But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, Ye'll now disdain me; * Mr. Heron, author of a History of Scotland, and various other works. |