This was deny'd, it was affirm'd; The herds an' hissels were alarm'd: The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd, That beardless laddies Should think they better were inform'd Than their auld daddies. 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, The lairds forbade, by strict commands, But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an-stowe, Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe, Ye'll find ane plac'd; An' some, their new-light fair avow, 1 Just quite barefac❜d. Nae 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 sadly lie'd on But shortly they will cowe the louns! An' stay a month amang the moons 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, ye observe that a' this clatter I hope, we bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulzie. EPISTLE EPISTLE ΤΟ J. R******, ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted R*** The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin! Your dreams* an' tricks Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin, Straught to auld Nick's. Ye A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the country-side. Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, And in your wicked, drucken 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! The lads in black! But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, It's just 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 sent you here some rhyming ware, A' that I bargain'd for an' mair; VOL. III. S Sae Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, Yon sang,* ye'll sen't wi' cannie care, Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing! My muse dow scarcely spread her wing! I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring, An' danc'd my -I'd better gaen an' sair'd the king fill! 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, * A song he had promised to the Author. The |