Fareweel, 'my rhyme-composing brither!'
We've been owre lang unkenned to ither:
Now let us lay our heads thegither,

In love fraternal :

May Envy wallop in a tether,

Black fiend, infernal!

While highlandmen hate toils and taxes;
While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies;
While terra firma, on her axis

Diurnal turns,

Count on a friend, in faith an' practice,

In ROBERT BURNS.

POSTCRIPT.

My memory's no worth a preen;

I had amaist forgotten clean,

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 viewing,

And 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 and lang.

Some herds, well learned upo' the beuk,
Wad treap auld folk the thing misteuk;
For 'twas the auld moon turned a neuk;
An' out o' sight,

An' backlins comin', to the leuk,

She grew mair bright.

This was denied, it was affirmed;
The herds an' hissels were alarmed;
The reverend grey-beards raved an' stormed,
That beardless laddies

Should think they better were informed

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 hanged and brunt.

This game was played in monie lands,
And Auld-Light caddies bure sic hands,
That faith, the youngsters took the sands
Wi' nimble shanks,

The lairds forbade, by strict commands,
Sic bluidy pranks.

But New-Light herds gat sic a cowe,
Folk thought them ruined stick-an-stowe,
Till now amaist on every knowe

Ye'll find ane placed;

An' some their New-Light fair avow

Just quite barefaced.

Nae doubt the Auld-Light flocks are bleatin'; Their zealous herds are vexed an' sweatin'; Mysel', I've even seen them greetin'

Wi' girnin' spite,

To hear the moon sae sadly lied 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 though dull prose-folk Latin splatter
In logic tulzie,

I hope we bardies ken some better

Than mind sic brulzie.

TO J. RANKINE, ENCLOSING SOME

POEMS.

O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine,
The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin'!
There's mony 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, drucken rants,
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts,

An' fill them fou:

And then their failings, flaws, an' wants

Are a' seen through.

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare

it!

That holy robe, oh, 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 naething To ken them by,

Frae ony unregenerate heathen

Like you or I.

I've sent you here some rhyming ware,
A' that I bargained 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.

Though, faith, sma' heart hae I to sing! My Muse dow scarcely spread her wing: I've played mysel' a bonnie spring,

An' danced my fill;

I'd better gaen an' saired 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 used hands had ta'en a note,
That sic a hen had got a shot;

I was suspected for the plot;

I scorned 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 powther an' my hail,
An' by my hen, an' by her tail,

The game shall

I vow an' swear!

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,