While highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes; While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies ; While terra firma, on her axis Diurnal turns, Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, POSTSCRIPT. MY memory's no worth a preen ; I had amaist forgotten clean, Maist like to fight. In * See note, p. 67. 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 viewing, They gat a new one. An' shortly after she was done, 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 and lang. Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; An' backlins-comin, to the leuk, An' out o' sight, She grew mair bright. This 1 This was deny'd, it was affirm'd; 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, Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, Folk thought them ruin'd 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. Nae Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin; Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin; Mysel, I've even seen them greetin But shortly they will cowe the louns! An' stay ae month amang the moons 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, An' when the new-light billies see them, Just i' their pouch, I think they'll crouch ! Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter I hope, we bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulzie. EPISTLE |