Part 24

I own ’twas rash, an’ rather hardy, That I, a simple, country bardie, Should meddle wi’ a pack sae sturdy, Wha, if they ken me, Can easy, wi’ a single wordie, Lowse hell upon me.

But I gae mad at their grimaces, Their sighin, cantin, grace-proud faces, Their three-mile prayers, an’ half-mile graces, Their raxin conscience, Whase greed, revenge, an’ pride disgraces Waur nor their nonsense.

There’s Gaw’n, misca’d waur than a beast, Wha has mair honour in his breast Than mony scores as guid’s the priest Wha sae abus’d him: And 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’ not 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 should be, Nor am I even the thing I could be, But twenty times I rather would 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 take religion in their mouth; They talk o’ mercy, grace, an’ truth, For what?—to gie their malice skouth On some puir wight, An’ hunt him down, owre right and 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.

Tho’ blotch’t and foul wi’ mony a stain, An’ far unworthy of thy train, With trembling voice I tune my strain, To join with those Who boldly dare thy cause maintain In spite of 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 presbyterial bound A candid liberal 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 ye.

Second Epistle to Davie

A Brother Poet

Auld Neibour, I’m three times doubly o’er your debtor, For your auld-farrant, frien’ly letter; Tho’ I maun say’t I doubt ye flatter, Ye speak sae fair; For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter Some less maun sair.

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle, Lang may your elbuck jink diddle, To cheer you thro’ the weary widdle O’ war’ly cares; Till barins’ barins kindly cuddle Your auld grey hairs.

But Davie, lad, I’m red ye’re glaikit; I’m tauld the muse ye hae negleckit; An, gif it’s sae, ye sud by lickit Until ye fyke; Sic haun’s as you sud ne’er be faikit, Be hain’t wha like.

For me, I’m on Parnassus’ brink, Rivin the words to gar them clink; Whiles dazed wi’ love, whiles dazed wi’ drink, Wi’ jads or masons; An’ whiles, but aye owre late, I think Braw sober lessons.

Of a’ the thoughtless sons o’ man, Commen’ to me the bardie clan; Except it be some idle plan O’ rhymin clink, The devil haet,—that I sud ban— They ever think.

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o’ livin, Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin, But just the pouchie put the neive in, An’ while ought’s there, Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin’, An’ fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it’s aye a treasure, My chief, amaist my only pleasure; At hame, a-fiel’, at wark, or leisure, The Muse, poor hizzie! Tho’ rough an’ raploch be her measure, She’s seldom lazy.

Haud to the Muse, my daintie Davie: The warl’ may play you mony a shavie; But for the Muse, she’ll never leave ye, Tho’ e’er sae puir, Na, even tho’ limpin wi’ the spavie Frae door tae door.

Song—Young Peggy Blooms

Tune—“Loch Eroch-side.”

Young Peggy blooms our boniest lass, Her blush is like the morning, The rosy dawn, the springing grass, With early gems adorning. Her eyes outshine the radiant beams That gild the passing shower, And glitter o’er the crystal streams, And cheer each fresh’ning flower.

Her lips, more than the cherries bright, A richer dye has graced them; They charm th’ admiring gazer’s sight, And sweetly tempt to taste them; Her smile is as the evening mild, When feather’d pairs are courting, And little lambkins wanton wild, In playful bands disporting.