An' we to share in common:
The gust o' joy, the balm of woe,
The saul o' life, the heav'n below,
Is rapture-giving woman.

Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name,
Be mindfu' o' your mither:
She, honest woman, may think shame
That ye're connected with her,
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men,
That slight the lovely dears;
To shame ye, disclaim ye,
Ilk honest birkie swears.

line:

For you, no bred to barn and byre,1
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,
Thanks to for
you your
The marled plaid ye kindly spare,
By me should gratefully be ware;
Twad please me to the Nine.
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap,2
Douce hingin' owre my curple,
Than ony ermine ever lap,
Or proud imperial purple.
Fareweel then, lang heal then,
An' plenty be your fa':
May losses and crosses
Ne'er at your hallan ca'.

March, 1787.

TO J. LAPRAIK.

Sept. 13th, 1785.

GUID speed an' furder to you, Johnny,
Guid health, hale hans, and weather bonny;
Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny

The staff, o' bread,

May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y

To clear your head.

May Boreas never thresh your rigs,
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs

But may

Like drivin' wrack;
the tapmast grain that wags
Come to the sack.

1 Stable, or sheep-pen.

2 Mantle.

I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it,
But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it,
Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it

Wi' muckle wark,

An' took my jocteleg1 an' what it,

Like ony clark.

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor,
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter,
Abusin' me for harsh ill-nature

On holy men,

While Deil a hair yoursel ye're better,
But mair profane.

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells,
Let's sing about our noble sels;
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills

To help, or roose us,

But browster wives2 an' whiskie stills,

They are the Muses.

Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it,

An' if ye mak objections at it,

Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it,

An' witness take,

An' when wi' Usquebae we've wat it

It winna break.

But if the beast and branks be spar'd
Till kye be gaun without the herd,
An' a' the vittel in the yard,

An' theekit right,

I mean your ingle-side to guard

Ae winter night.

Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitæ

Shall make us baith sae blithe an' witty,

Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty,

An' be as canty

As ye were nine years less than thretty,

Sweet ane an' twenty!

But stooks are cowpet3 wi' the blast,
An' now the sinn keeks in the west,

1 Clasp-knife.

2 Alehouse wives.
Sun peeps.

Tumbled over

Then I maun rin amang the rest

An' quit my chanter;

Sae I subscribe mysel in haste

Your's, Rab the Ranter.1

TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH.

ENCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER, WHICH HE HAD

WHILE at the stook the shearers cow'r

To shun the bitter blaudin'2 show'r,

Or in gulravage rinnin scour,3

To pass the time,

In idle rhyme.

My musie, tir'd wi' monie a sonnet

On gown, an' ban,' an' douse black bonnet,
Is grown right eerie1 now she's done it,

Lest they shou'd blame her,

An' rouse their holy thunder on it,

And anathem her.

I own 'twas rash, and rather hardy,
That I, a simple countra bardie,
Shou'd meddle wi' a pack so sturdy,

Wha, if they ken me,

Can easy, wi' a single wordie,

But I

Loose hell upon me.

gae mad at their grimaces,

Their sighin,' cantin,' grace-proud faces,

Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces,

Their raxin's conscience,

Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces

Waur nor their nonsense.

There's Gawn,6 miska't waur than a beast,
Wha has mair honour in his breast

1 It is very probable that the Poet thus named himself after the Border Piper, so spiritedly introduced in the popular song of "Maggie Lauder." Cromek.

2 Driving.

4 Frighted.

3 Running in confusion, like boys leaving school. 6 Gavin Hamilton.

5 Stretching.

Than monie scores as guid 's the priest
Wha sae abus'd him;

An' may a bard no crack his jest

What way they've us'd him ?

See him, the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word an' deed,

An' shall his fame an' honour bleed

By worthless skellums,

An' no a muse erect her head

To cowe the blellums ?

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts
To gie the rascals their deserts,
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts,

An' tell aloud

Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts

To cheat the crowd.

God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be,
Nor am I even the thing I cou'd be,
But, twenty times, I rather wou'd be

An atheist clean,

Than under Gospel colours hid be,

Just for a screen.

An honest man may like a glass,
An honest man may like a lass,
But mean revenge, an' malice fause,

He'll still disdain,

An' then cry zeal for Gospel laws,

Like some we ken.

They tak religion in their mouth;
They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth,
For what? to gie their malice skouth1

On some puir wight,
An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth,
To ruin straight.

All hail, Religion! maid divine!
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine,
Who in her rough imperfect line

Thus daurs to name thee;

To stigmatise false friends of thine

Can ne'er defame thee.

1 Vent.

Tho' blotch't an' foul wi' monie a stain,
An' far unworthy of thy train,
Wi' trembling voice I tune my strain,
To join wi' those,

Who boldly daur thy cause maintain

In spite o' foes;

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs,
In spite o' undermining jobs,
In spite o' dark banditti stabs

At worth an' merit,

By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes,

But hellish spirit.

O Ayr! my dear, my native ground!
Within thy presbytereal bound,

A candid lib'ral band is found

Of public teachers,

As men, as Christians too, renown'd,

An' manly preachers.

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd;
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd;

An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd,

(Which gies you honour,)

Even, Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd,
An' winning manner.

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en,
An' if impertinent I've been,
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye.

But to his utmost would befriend

Ought that belang'd t' ye.