My auld school-fellow, Preacher Willie,
The manly tar, my mason billie,
An' Auchenbay, I wish him joy;
If he's a parent, lass or boy,

May he be dad, and Meg the mither
Just five-and-forty years thegither!
An' no forgetting wabster Charlie,
I'm tauld he offers very fairly.

An' Lord, remember singing Sannock,
Wi' hale-breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock.
An' next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy,
Since she is fitted to her fancy,
An' her kind stars hae airted till her
A good chiel wi' a pickle siller.
My kindest, best respects I sen' it,
To cousin Kate an' sister Janet;

Tell them frae me, wi' chiels be cautious,
For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashious:
To grant a heart is fairly civil,

But to grant a maidenhead's the devil.
An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel,

May guardian angels tak a spell,

An' steer you seven miles south o' hell:
But first, before you see heav'n's glory,
May ye get mony a merry story,
Mony a laugh, and mony a drink,
An' aye enough o' needfu' clink.

Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you!
For my sake, this I beg it o' you,
Assist poor Simson a' ye can,
Ye'll fin' hin just an honest man;
Sae I conclude and quat my chanter,
Yours, saint or sinner,

ROB THE RANTER.

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EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ.,

OF FINTRY:

ON THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN SIR JAMES JOHNSTONE AND CAPTAIN MILLER, FOR THE DUMFRIES

DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS.

FINTRY, my stay in worldly strife,
Friend o' my Muse, friend o' my life,
Are ye as idle's I am?

Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg,

O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg,

And ye shall see me try him.

But where shall I go rin a ride,
That I may splatter nane beside?
I wad na be uncivil:

In manhood's various paths and ways
There's aye some doytin' body strays,
And I ride like the devil.

Thus I break off wi' a' my birr,
An' down yon dark deep alley spur,
Where Theologics daunder:

Alas! curst wi' eternal fogs,

And damned in everlasting bogs,

As sure's the creed I'll blunder.

I'll stain a band, or jaup a gown,
Or rin my reckless guilty crown
Against the haly door.

Sair do I rue my luckless fate

When, as the muse an' deil wad hae 't,
I rade that road before.

Suppose I take a spurt, and mix

Amang the wilds o' Politics,

Electors and elected;

Where dogs at Court (sad sons of bitches!)

Septennially a madness touches,

Till all the land's infected.

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All hail! Drumlanrig's haughty Grace,
Discarded remnant of a race

Once godlike great in story;
Thy forbears' virtues all contrasted,
The very name of Douglas blasted,
Thine that inverted glory!

Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore;
But thou hast superadded more,

And sunk them in contempt;
Follies and crimes have stained the name,
But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim-
From all that's good exempt!

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears
Who left the all-important cares

Of princes and their darlings;
And, bent on winning borough towns,
Came shaking hands wi' wabster loons,
And kissing barefit carlins.

Combustion thro' our boroughs rode
Whistling his roaring pack abroad

Of mad unmuzzled lions;

As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl'd,
And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd
To every Whig defiance.

But cautious Queensberry left the war,
Th' unmanner'd dust might soil his star;
Besides, he hated bleeding;

But left behind him heroes bright,

Heroes in Cæsarean fight,

Or Ciceronian pleading.

O! for a throat like huge Mons-Meg,
To muster o'er each ardent Whig

Beneath Drumlanrig's banner!

Heroes and heroines commix,

All in the field of politics,

To win immortal honour.

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M'Murdo and his lovely spouse,

(Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows!)
Led on the loves and graces :

She won each gaping burgess' heart,
While he, all-conquering, play'd his part
Among their wives and lasses.

Craigdarroch led a light-arm'd corps,
Tropes, metaphors and figures pour,

Like Hecla streaming thunder:
Glenriddel, skill'd in rusty coins,
Blew up each Tory's dark designs,

And bared the treason under.

In either wing two champions fought,
Redoubted Staig, who set at nought
The wildest savage Tory:

And Welsh, who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground,
High-waved his magnum-bonum round
With Cyclopean fury.

Miller brought up th' artillery ranks,
The many-pounders of the Banks,
Resistless desolation!

While Maxwelton, that baron bold,
'Mid Lawson's port entrench'd his hold,
And threaten'd worse damnation.

To these what Tory hosts oppos'd,
With these what Tory warriors clos'd,
Surpasses my descriving:

Squadrons extended long and large,
With furious speed rush to the charge,
Like raving devils driving.

What verse can sing, what prose narrate,
The butcher deeds of bloody fate

Amid this mighty tulzie!

Grim Horror girn'd-pale Terror roar'd,
As Murther at his thrapple shor'd,

And Hell mix'd in the brulzie.

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As Highland crags by thunder cleft,
When lightnings fire the stormy lift,

Hurl down with crashing rattle;
As flames among a hundred woods;
As headlong foam a hundred floods;

Such is the rage of battle!

The stubborn Tories dare to die ;
As soon the rooted oaks would fly

Before th' approaching fellers:
The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar,
When all his wintry billows pour

Against the Buchan Bullers.

Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night,
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight,

And think on former daring:

The muffled murtherer of Charles
The Magna Charta flag unfurls,

All deadly gules its bearing.

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame,
Bold Scrimgeour follows gallant Graham,
Auld Covenanters shiver.

(Forgive, forgive, much-wrong'd Montrose !
Now death and hell engulf thy foes,

Thou liv'st on high for ever!)

Still o'er the field the combat burns,
The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns;
But Fate the word has spoken,

For woman's wit and strength o' man
Alas! can do but what they can!

The Tory ranks are broken.

O that my een were flowing burns!
My voice a lioness that mourns

Her darling cubs' undoing;

That I might greet, that I might cry,

While Tories fall, while Tories fly,

And furious Whigs pursuing!