Sae, ye obferve that a' this clatter Is naething but a 'moonfhine matter;' I hope, we Bardies ken fome better Than mind fic brulzie. EPISTLE EPISTLE то J. R** Inclofing fome Poems. ● ROUGH, rude, ready-witted R******, The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin! Your dreams* an' tricks Will fend you, Korah-like, a-finkin, Straught to auld Nick's. Ye * A certain humorous dream of his was then ma king a noise in the country-fide. 1 Ye hae fae monie cracks an' cants, And in your wicked, druken rants, An' fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Are a' feen thro'. 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, 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. I've fent you here fome rhyming 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, Tho' faith, fma' heart hae I to fing! My Muse dow fcarcely spread her wing! I've play'd myfel a bonnie spring, An' danc'd my fill! I'd better gaen an' fair'd the King, At Bunker's Hill. 'Twas ae night lately in my fun, I gaed a roving wi' the gun, An' brought a Paitrick to the grun', VOL. II. A bonnie hen, H And, A fong he had promised the Author. And, as the twilight was begun, Thought nane wad ken. The poor, wee thing was little hurt; I ftrakit it a wee for fport, Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't; But, Deil-ma-care! Somebody tells the Poacher-court The hale affair. Some auld, us'd hands had taen a note, That fic a hen had got a fhot; I was fufpected for the plot; I fcorn'd to lie; So gat the whifsle o' my groat, An' pay't the fee. But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, An' by my pouther an' my hail, An' |