Part 21

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; Their zealous herds are vex’d an’ sweatin; Mysel’, I’ve even seen them greetin Wi’ girnin spite, To hear the moon sae sadly lied on By word an’ write.

But shortly they will cowe the louns! Some auld-light herds in neebor touns Are mind’t, in things they ca’ balloons, To tak a flight; An’ stay ae month amang the moons An’ see them right.

Guid observation they will gie them; An’ when the auld moon’s gaun to lea’e them, The hindmaist 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 Is naething but a “moonshine matter”; But tho’ dull prose-folk Latin splatter In logic tulyie, I hope we bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulyie.

One Night As I Did Wander

Tune—“John Anderson, my jo.”

One night as I did wander, When corn begins to shoot, I sat me down to ponder Upon an auld tree root; Auld Ayr ran by before me, And bicker’d to the seas; A cushat crooded o’er me, That echoed through the braes . . . . . . .

Tho’ Cruel Fate Should Bid Us Part

Tune—“The Northern Lass.”

Tho’ cruel fate should bid us part, Far as the pole and line, Her dear idea round my heart, Should tenderly entwine. Tho’ mountains, rise, and deserts howl, And oceans roar between; Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, I still would love my Jean. . . . . . . .

Song—Rantin’, Rovin’ Robin^1

Tune—“Daintie Davie.”

There was a lad was born in Kyle, But whatna day o’ whatna style, I doubt it’s hardly worth the while To be sae nice wi’ Robin.

Chor.—Robin was a rovin’ boy, Rantin’, rovin’, rantin’, rovin’, Robin was a rovin’ boy, Rantin’, rovin’, Robin!

Our monarch’s hindmost year but ane Was five-and-twenty days begun^2, ’Twas then a blast o’ Janwar’ win’ Blew hansel in on Robin. Robin was, &c.

The gossip keekit in his loof, Quo’ scho, “Wha lives will see the proof, This waly boy will be nae coof: I think we’ll ca’ him Robin.” Robin was, &c.

“He’ll hae misfortunes great an’ sma’, But aye a heart aboon them a’, He’ll be a credit till us a’— We’ll a’ be proud o’ Robin.” Robin was, &c.

“But sure as three times three mak nine, I see by ilka score and line, This chap will dearly like our kin’, So leeze me on thee! Robin.” Robin was, &c.

“Guid faith,” quo’, scho, “I doubt you gar The bonie lasses lie aspar; But twenty fauts ye may hae waur So blessins on thee! Robin.” Robin was, &c.

Elegy On The Death Of Robert Ruisseaux^1

Now Robin lies in his last lair, He’ll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair; Cauld poverty, wi’ hungry stare, Nae mair shall fear him; Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care, E’er mair come near him.

To tell the truth, they seldom fash’d him, Except the moment that they crush’d him; For sune as chance or fate had hush’d ’em Tho’ e’er sae short. Then wi’ a rhyme or sang he lash’d ’em, And thought it sport.

Tho’he was bred to kintra-wark, And counted was baith wight and stark, Yet that was never Robin’s mark To mak a man; But tell him, he was learn’d and clark, Ye roos’d him then!

Epistle To John Goldie, In Kilmarnock

Author Of The Gospel Recovered.—August, 1785

O Gowdie, terror o’ the whigs, Dread o’ blackcoats and rev’rend wigs! Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, Girns an’ looks back, Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues May seize you quick.

Poor gapin’, glowrin’ Superstition! Wae’s me, she’s in a sad condition: Fye: bring Black Jock,^1 her state physician, To see her water; Alas, there’s ground for great suspicion She’ll ne’er get better.