epistle to john rankine
enclosing some poems
h, rude, ready-witted rankine,
the wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin!
there's mony godly folks are thinkin,
your dreams and tricks
will send you, korah-like, a-sinkin
straught to auld nick's.
ye hae saw mony cracks an' ts,
and in your wicked, dru rants,
ye mak a devil o' the saunts,
an' fill them fou;
and then their failings, fws, 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 ds in bck;
but your curst wit, when it es near it,
rives't aff their back.
think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing:
it's just the blue-gown badge an' cithing
o' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them hing
to ken them by
frae ony unregee heathen,
like you or i.
i've sent you here some rhyming ware,
a' that i bargain'd for, an' mair;
sae, when ye hae an hour to spare,
i will expect,
yon sang ye'll sen't, wi' ie care,
and no .
tho' faith, sma' heart hae i to sing!
my muse dow scarcely spread her wing;
i've py'd mysel a bonie spring,
an' danc'd my fill!
i'd better gaen an' sair't the king,
at bunkjer's hill.
'twas ae night tely, in my fun,
i gaed a rovin' wi' the gun,
an' brought a paitrick to the grun'—
a bonie 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 taen a note,
that sic a hen had got a shot;
i was suspected for the plot;
i s'd to lie;
so gat the whissle o' my groat,
an' pay't the fee.
but by my gun, o' guns the wale,
an' by my pouther an' my hail,
an' by my hen, an' by her tail,
i vow an' swear!
the game shall pay, o'er muir an' dale,
for this, year.
as soon's the clo-time is by,
an' the wee pouts begun to cry,
lord, i'se hae sp by an' by
for my gowd guinea,
tho' i should herd the buckskin kye
for't in virginia.
trowth, they had muckle for to bme!
'twas her broken wing nor limb,
but twa-three draps about the wame,
scarce thro' the feathers;
an' baith a yellow gee to cim,
an' thole their blethers!
it pits me aye as mad's a hare;
so i rhyme nor write nae mair;
but pennyworths again is fair,
when time's expedient:
meanwhile i am, respected sir,
your most obedient.