POSTSCRIPT.

Y memory's no worth a preen;
I had amaist forgotten clean,

M

Ye bade me write you what they mean By this New-Light,* 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been

Maist like to fight.

In days when mankind were but callans
At grammar, logic, an' sic talents,

They took nae pains their speech to balance,
Or rules to gie,

But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans,
Like you or me.

In thae auld times, they thought the moon,
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon,

Wore by degrees, till her last roon,

Gaed past their viewin,

An' shortly after she was done,

They gat a new one.

This past for certain, undisputed;

It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it,
Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it,
An' ca'd it wrang;

An' muckle din there was about it,
Baith loud an' lang.

See note, p. 56.

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk,
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk;
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk,
An' out o' sight,

An' backlins-comin, to the leuk,

She grew mair bright.

This was deny'd, it was affirm'd;
The herds an' hissels were alarm'd ;

The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd,
That beardless laddies

Should think they better were inform'd

Than their auld daddies.

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks;
Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks;
An' monie a fallow gat his licks,

Wi' hearty crunt ;

An' some, to learn them for their tricks,

Were hang'd an' brunt.

This game was play'd in monie lands,
An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands,
That, faith, the youngsters took the sands
Wi' nimble shanks,

The lairds forbad, by strict commands,
Sie bluidy pranks.

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe,

Folk thought them ruined stick-an-stowe,

Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe

Ye'll find ane plac'd;

An' some, their new-light fair avow,

Just quite barefac'd.

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Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin;
Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin;
Mysel, I've even seen them greetin

Wi' girnin spite,

To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on
By word an' write.

But shortly they will cowe the louns!
Some auld light herds in neebor towns
Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons,
To tak a flight,

An' stay a month amang the moons,
An' see them right.

Guid observation they will gie them;

An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them,
The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them,
Just i' their pouch,

An' when the new-light billies see them,

I think they'll crouch!

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter
Is naething but a moonshine matter;'
But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter
In logic tulzie,

I hope, we Bardies ken some better

Than mind sic brulzie.

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70

EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE,* ENCLOSING

SOME POEMS.

ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine,
The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin!
There's monie godly folks are thinkin,
Your dreams an' tricks

Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin,
Straught to auld Nick's.

Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants,
And in your wicked, drunken rants,

* John Rankine lived at Adam Hill, in Ayrshire, and was a man of much humour and ready wit. Allan Cunningham considers Burns' account of the partridge, and of his being fined for poaching, a figurative allusion to the connexion which produced the "illegitimate child" of his celebrated "Address;" but it is by no means certain that the conjecture is well founded.

A certain humorous dream of his was then making noise in the country-side. R. B. This dream is thus related by Allan Cunningham. "Lord K. was in the habit of calling his familiar acquaintances 'brutes,' or 'damned brutes.' One day, meeting Rankine, his lordship said, ' Brute, are ye dumb? have ye no queer sly story to tell us?' 'I have nae story,' said Rankine, 'but last night I had an odd dream.' 'Out with it by all means,' said the other. 'A weel, ye see,' said Rankine, 'I dreamed that I was dead, and that for keeping other than good company on earth, I was damned. When I knocked at Hell-door wha should open it but the Deil; he was in a rough humour, and said, 'Wha may you be and what's your name?' 'My name,' quoth I, 'is John Rankine, and my dwelling-place was Adam-Hill.' 'Gae wa'

wi,' quoth Satan, 'ye canna be here; ye're ane of Lord K-'s damned brutes-Hell's fou o' them already!' This sharp rebuke, it is said, polished, for the future, his lordship's speech."

Ye mak a devil o' the saunts,

An' fill them fou;

And then their failings, flaws, an' wants,

Are a' seen thro'.

Hypocrisy, in merey 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 skaithing,
It's 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;
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 bonie spring,

An' danc'd my fill!

I'd better gaen an' sair't the king

At Bunker's Hill.

"Twas ae night lately, in my fun, I gaed a roving wi' the gun,

A song he had promised the Author.

R. B.

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