Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk; For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk, An' out o' sight, An' backlins-comin, to the leuk, She grew mair bright. This was deny'd, it was affirmed; The rev'rend grey-beards rav'd an' storm'd, Should think they better were inform'd Than their auld daddies. Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; Wi' hearty crunt; An' some, to learn them for their tricks, Were hang'd an' brunt. This game was play'd in monie lands, Till 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, Just quite barefac❜d. Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin; Wi' girnin spite, 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 gìe them; An' when the new-light billies see them, Sae I think they'll crouch! ye observe that a' this clatter I hope, we bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulzie. 1 See note, p. 52. EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKIN. ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted R******. Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin, Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, An' fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it! But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, Frae ony unregenerate heathen Like you or I. I've sent you here some rhyming ware, Yon sang2, ye'll sen't wi' cannie care Tho', faith, sma' heart hae I to sing; I'd better gaen an' sair'd the king 'Twas ae night lately in my fun, And, as the twilight was begun, Thought nane wad ken. The poor wee thing was little hurt; Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't; Somebody tells the poacher court The hale affair. Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note, That sic a hen had got a shot; I was suspected for the plot; I scorn'd to lie; So gat the whissle o' my groat, An' pay't the fee. But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, I vow an' swear! The game shall pay, o'er moor an' dale, As soon's the clockin-time is by, For my gowd guinea; Trowth, they had muckle for to blame! Scarce thro' the feathers; An' baith a yellow George to claim, An' thole their blethers! It pits me aye as mad's a hare; When time's expedient: Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, Your most obedient. 1 A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the country-side. 2 A song he had promised the author. |