Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs and haggs, But may the tapmast grain that wags I'm bizzie too, and skelpin' at it, And took my jocteleg and whatt it, It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, morasses sea-weed topmost busy, active beating, wet got much trouble knife, mended any selves jades praise brewer Your friendship, sir, I winna quat it, And if ye mak objections at it, Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it, Aud when wi' usquebae we've wat it, It winna break. But if the beast and branks be spared And theekit right, I mean your ingle-side to guard Then muse-inspirin' aqua vitæ Shall make us baith sae blythe and witty, Till ye forget ye're auld and gutty, And be as canty As ye were nine year less than thretty, Sweet ane and twenty! But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast, quit fist whisky curb cows, going victuals thatched fireside one both gouty cheerful shocks, overturned sun peeps run quit, pipes EPISTLE TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH. WHILE t the stook the shearers cower To pass the time, To you I dedicate the hour In idle rhyme. My Musie, tired wi' mony a sonnet September 17, 1785. shock, reapers On gown, and ban', and douce black bonnet, And rouse their holy thunder on it, beating confusion sober fearful I own t'was rash, and rather hardy, bard knew Can easy, wi' a single wordie, loose Lowse KIRKS upon me. But I gae mad at their grimaces, Their sighin', cantin', grace-proud faces, Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces, Their raxin' conscience, Whase greed, revenge, and pride disgraces Waur nor their nonsense. There's Gawn,* misca't waur than a beast, Wha has mair honour in his breast Than mony scores as guid's the priest Wha sae abus't him; And may a bard no crack his jest What way they've use't him? See him, the poor man's friend in need, And shall his fame and honour bleed By worthless skellums, And not a Muse erect her head Oh, Pope, had I thy satire's darts Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts A' KEN I'm no the thing I should be, Gavin Hamilton. half stretching whose worse than blamed wretches talkative fellows give But twenty times I rather would be Than under gospel colours hid be An honest man may like a glass, And then cry zeal for gospel laws, They take religion in their mouth; And hunt him down o'er right and ruth, All hail, Religion! maid divine! To stigmatize false friends of thine Though blotch't and foul wi' mony a stain And far unworthy of thy train, With trembling voice I tune my strain To join with those Who boldly daur thy cause maintain In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, O Ayr! my dear, my native ground, As men, as Christians too, renowned, Sir, in that circle you are named; Even, sir, by them your heart's esteemed, Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, And if impertinent I've been, false scope poor dares Impute it not, good sir, in ane But to his utmost would befriend one whose belonged to TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER 1785. WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim 'rous beastie, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, I'm truly sorry man's dominion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; hasty clatter loath ploughstaff sometimes must ear of Now thou's turned out for a' thy trouble, But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, little weak walls, winds build rank grass both sharp comfortable ploughshare stubble many without, hold endure, drizzle hoar-fros alone The best-laid schemes o' mice and men, And lea'e us nought but grief and pain, Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! And forward, though I canna see, go oft wrong eye HALLOWE'EN.* The following poem will, by many readers, be well enough understood; but for the sake of those who are unacquainted with the manners and traditions of the country where the scene is cast, notes are added, to give some account of the principal charms and spells of that night, so big with prophecy to the peasantry in the west of Scotland. The passion of prying into futurity makes a striking part of the history of human nature in its rude state. in all ages and nations; and it may be some entertainment to a philosophic mind, if any such should honour the author with a perusal, to see the remains of it among the more unenlightened in our own. "Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, UPON that night, when fairies light, There, up the Covet to stray and rove To sport that night. Amang the bonny, winding banks, Where Doon rins, wimplin', clear, GOLDSMITH.-B. Where Bruces ance ruled the martial ranks, And shook his Carrick spear, Some merry, friendly, country folks Together did convene, To burn their nits, and pou their stocks, And haud their Hallowe'en Fu' blythe that night. over, fields meandering once nuts, pull hold Hallowe'en or All Hallow Eve is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings are all abroad on their baneful midnight errands; particularly those aerial people, the fairies, are said on that night to hold a grand anniversary.-B. + Certain little romantic, rocky, green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis.-B. A noted cavern near Colean House, called the Cove of Colean; which, as well as Casilis Downans, is famed in country story for being a favourite haunt of fairies.-B. S The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick.-B. |