Third.

GUID speed an' furder to you, Johnny,
Guid health, hale han's, an' 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 thresh your rigs,
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs
Like driving wrack;

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

I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin at it,

But bitter, daudin' showers hae wat it, auld stumpie pen I gat it,

Sae my

Wi' muckle wark,

An' took my jocteleg an' 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 lef 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 an' whisky-stills,
They are the Muses.

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

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

An' when wi' usquabae we've wat it

It winna break.

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

An' theekit right,

I mean your ingle-side to guard

Ae winter night.

Then muse-inspirin' aquavitæ

Shall make us baith sae blythe an' witty,
Till ye forget ye 're auld an' gatty,

An' be as canty

As ye were nine year less than thretty,
Sweet ane an' twenty!

But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast,
An' now the sinn keeks in the west,
Then I maun rin amang the rest

An' quat my chanter;

Sae I subscribe myself, in haste,

Yours, RAB The Ranter.

TO WILLIAM SIMPSON, OCHILTREE.
I GAT your letter, winsome Willie;
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie;
Though I maun say't, I wad be silly,

An' unco vain,

Should I believe, my coaxin' billie,

Your flatterin' strain.

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it,
I sud be laith to think ye hinted
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented

On my poor Musie;

Though in sic phrasin' terms ye 've penned it, I scarce excuse ye.

My senses wad be in a creel,
Should I but dare a hope to speel
Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfiel',

The braes o' fame;

Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel,

A deathless name.

(O Fergusson! thy glorious parts
Ill suited law's dry, musty arts!
My curse upon your whunstane hearts,
Ye Enbrugh gentry!

The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes
Wad stowed his pantry!)

Yet when a tale comes i' my head,
Or lasses gie my heart a screed,

As whyles they're like to be my dead,

(Oh, sad disease!)

I kittle

up my

rustic reed;

It gies me ease.

Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain,

She's gotten poets o' her ain,

Chiels wha their chanters winna hain,

But tune their lays,

Till echoes a' resound again

Her weel-sung praise.

Nae poet thought her worth his while,
To set her name in measured style;
She lay like some unkenned-of isle
Beside New Holland,

Or whare wild meeting oceans boil
Besouth Magellan.

Ramsay an' famous Fergusson
Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon;
Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune,
Owre Scotland rings,

While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon,
Naebody sings.

Th' Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line; But, Willie, set your fit to mine,

An' cock your crest,

We'll gar our streams and burnies shine Up wi' the best.

We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, Her moors red-brown wi' heather-bells, Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, Where glorious Wallace

Aft bure the gree, as story tells,

Frae Southron billies.

At Wallace' name what Scottish blood
But boils up in a spring-tide flood!
Oft have our fearless fathers strode

By Wallace' side,

Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod,

Or glorious dyed.

Oh, sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin hares, in amorous whids,

Their loves enjoy,

While through the braes the cushat croods With wailfu' cry!

E'en winter bleak has charms to me, When winds rave through the naked tree; Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree

Are hoary grey;

Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee,

Darkening the day!

O Nature! a' thy shows an' forms,
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!
Whether the summer kindly warms
Wi' life an' light,

Or winter howls in gusty storms

The lang, dark night!

The Muse, nae poet ever fand her,
Till by himsel' he learned to wander,
Adown some trotting burn's meander,
An' no think lang;

Oh, sweet to stray an' pensive ponder
A heartfelt sang!

The warly race may drudge an' drive Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, and strive, Let me fair Nature's face descrive,

And I, wi' pleasure,

Shall let the busy, grumbling hive

Bum owre their treasure.