Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, And in your wicked, drucken rants, Ye mak a devil o' the saunts,

An' fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants,

Are a' seen thro'.

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!
That holy robe, O dinna tear it!
Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it,

The lads in black!
But your curst wit, when it comes near it,

Rives't aff their back.

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithnig, Its just the blue-gown badge an' claithing O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naithing

To ken them by, Frae ony unregenerate heathen

Like you or I.

I've sent you here some rhyming ware, A' that I bargain’d for an' mair;

VOL. III.

S

Sae,

Sae, when

ye

hae an hour to spare,

I will expect

Yon sang,* ye'll sen't wi' cannie care,

And no neglect.

Tho' faith; sma' heart hae I to sing ! My muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring,

An' danc'd

my

fill I'd better gaen an' sair'd the king

At Bunker's Hill.

'Twas ae night lately in my fun, I gaed a roving wi' the gun, An' brought a paitrick to the grun,

A bonnie hen, And, as the twilight was begun,

Thought nane wad ken.

The poor wee thing was little hurt;
I straikit it a wee for sport,
Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't;

But, deil-ma-care!
Somebody tells the poacher-court

The hale affair.

Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note,
That sic a hen had got a shot ;
I was suspected for the plot;

I scorn'd to lie;
So
gat
the whissle o' my groat,

An' pay't the fee.

my hail,

But, by my gun, o' guns

the wale, An' by my pouther an' An' by my hen, an' by her tail,

I vow an' swear! The game shall pay

o'er moor an' dale, For this, niest year.

As soon's the clockin-time is by,
An' the wee pouts begun to cry,
L--d, I'se hae sportin by an' by,

For my gowd guinea:
Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye
For't, in Virginia.

Trowth,

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame! 'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame

Scarce thro' the feathers; An' baith a yellow George to claim,

An' thole their blethers!

a

It pits me ay as mad's a hare;
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;
But pennyworths again is fair,

When time's expedient:
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,

Your most obedient.

JOHN

There was three kings into the east,

Three kings both great and high, An' they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn should die.

II.

* This is partly composed on the plan of an old song known by the same name.