Thy strong right hand, L—, mak it bare
Upo' their heads,

L-, weigh it down, and dinna spare,
For their misdeeds.

Oh L—, my G—, that glib-tongued Aiken,
My very heart and saul are quakin',
To think how we stood groanin', shakin',
And swat wi' dread,

While he wi' hingin' lip and snakin',
Held up his head.

L—, in the day of vengeance try him,
L-, visit them wha did employ him,
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em,
Nor hear their prayer;

But for thy people's sake destroy 'em,
And dinna spare.

But, L-, remember me and mine,
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine,
That I for gear and grace may shine,
Excelled by nane,

And a' the glory shall be thine,
Amen, Amen!

EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE.

HERE Holy Willie's sair-worn clay
Taks up its last abode;

LAPRAL

THIRD EPISTLE TO LAPRAIK.

His saul has ta'en some other way,
I fear the left-hand road.

Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun,
Poor silly body, see him;

Nae wonder he's as black's the grun',
Observe wha's standing wi' him.

Your brunstane devilship, I see,
Has got him there before ye;
But haud your nine-tail cat a wee,
Till ance you've heard my story.

Your pity I will not implore,
For pity ye hae nane;
Justice, alas! has gien him o'er,
And mercy's day is gane.

But hear me, sir, deil as ye are,
Look something to your credit;
A coof like him wad stain your name,
If it were kent ye did it.

119

THIRD EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK.

UID speed and furder to you, Johnny,

Go

Guid health, hale han's, and weather bonny;

Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny

The staff o' bread,

May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y
To clear your head.

May Boreas never thrash your rigs,
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs and haggs
Like drivin' wrack;

But may the tapmast grain that wags
Come to the sack.

I'm bizzie too, and skelpin' at it,
But bitter, daudin' showers hae wat it,
Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it
Wi' muckle wark,

And took my jocteleg and whatt it,
Like ony clark.

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, Abusin' me for harsh ill-nature

On holy men,

While deil a hair yoursel' ye 're better,
But mair profane.

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells,
Let's sing about our noble sel's;
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills
To help, or roose us,

But browster-wives and whisky-stills,
They are the muses.

Your friendship, sir, I winna quat it,
And if ye mak objections at it,

Then han' in nieve some day we 'll knot it,
And witness take,

And when wi' usquebae we've wat it,
It winna break.

But if the beast and branks be spared
Till kye be gaun without the herd,
And a' the vittel in the yard,

And theekit right,

I mean your ingle-side to guard
Ae winter-night.

Then muse-inspirin' aqua vitæ

Shall make us baith sae blithe 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 cowpit wi' the blast,
And now the sinn keeks in the west,
Then I maun rin amang the rest,
And quat my chanter;

Sae I subscribe myself in haste

Yours, RAB THE Ranter.

EPISTLE TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH.

WH

HILE at the stook the shearers cower
To shun the bitter blaudin' shower,

Or in gulravage rinnin' scower

To pass the time,

To you I dedicate the hour

In idle rhyme.

My Musie, tired wi' monie a sonnet
On gown, and ban', and douce black bonnet,
Is grown right eerie, now she's done it,
Lest they should blame her,

And rouse their holy thunder on it,
And anathém her.

I own 't was rash, and 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 h-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,
The gentleman in word and deed,
And shall his fame and honour bleed
By worthless skellums,