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The Muse, nae poet ever fand her,
An' no think lang;
A heart-felt sang!
The warly race may drudge an' drive,
And I, wi' pleasure,
Bum owre their treasure.
Fareweel, 'my rhyme-composing brither!' We've been owre lang unkenn’d to ither: Now let us lay our heads thegither,
In love fraternal : May Envy wallop in a tether,
Black fiend, infernal!
While highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes;
In Robert Burns.
My memory's no worth a preen;
By this New-Light', 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been
Maist like to fight.
In days when mankind were but callans
Or rules to gie,
Like you or me.
In thae auld times, they thought the moon,
Gaed past their viewing,
They gat a new ane.
This past for certain, undisputed ;
An' ca'd it wrang;
Baith loud an' lang.
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 ;
That beardless laddies
Than their auld daddies.
Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks;
Wi' hearty crunt;
Were hang'd an’ brunt.
This game was play'd in monie lands,
Wi' nimble shanks,
Sic bluidy pranks.
But new-light herds gat sic a cowe,
Ye'll find ane plac'd;
Just quite barefac'd.
Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin ;
Wi' girnin spite,
By word an' write.
But shortly they will cowe the louns!
To tak a flight,
An' see them right.
Guid observation they will gie them;
Just i’ their pouch,
I think they'll crouch!
Sae ye observe that a' this clatter
In logic tulzie,
Than mind sic brulzie.
1 See note, p. 52.
O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted R ******
Your dreams' an' tricks
Straught to auld Nick's.
Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants,
An’ fill them fou;
Are a' seen thro'.
Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!
The lads in black !
Rives 't aff their back.
Think, wicked sinner, wha ye’re skaithing,
To ken them by,
Like you or I.