Lord, I'se hae sportin' by-an'-by

For my gowd guinea:

Though I should herd the buckskin kye
For 't, in Virginia.

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame!
"Twas neither broken wing nor limb,
But twa-three draps about the wame,

Scarce through the feathers;

An' baith a yellow George to claim,

And thole their blethers!

It pits me aye as mad's a hare;
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;
But pennyworths again is fair,

When time's expedient:

Meanwhile I am, respected sir,

Yours most obedient.

TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH.*

WHILE at the stook the shearers cower
To shun the bitter blaudin' shower,
Or in gulravage rinnin' scower

To pass the time,

To you I dedicate the hour

In idle rhyme.

My Musie, tired wi' mony a sonnet

On gown, an' ban', an' douce black bonnet,
Is grown right eerie now she's done it,

Lest they should blame her,

An' rouse their holy thunder on it

And anathem her.

* One of the Presbyterian clergy who preached against the 'Auld-Light' doctrines.

I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy,
That I, a simple, country bardie,
Should meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy,
Wha, if they ken me,

Can easy, wi' a single wordie,

Lowse hell upon me.

But I gae mad at their grimaces,

Their sighin', cantin', grace-proud faces,
Their three-mile prayers, an' hauf-mile graces,
Their raxin' conscience,

Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces
Waur nor their nonsense.

There's Gawn, misca't waur than a beast,
Wha has mair honour in his breast

Than mony scores as guid's the priest

Wha sae abus't him.

An' may a bard no crack his jest

What way they've use't him?

See him, the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word an' deed,

An' shall his fame an' honour bleed

By worthless skellums,

An' not a muse erect her head

To cowe the bellums?

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts,
To gie the rascals their deserts!
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts,
An' tell aloud

Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts

To cheat the crowd.

God knows I'm no the thing I should be,
Nor am I even the thing I could be,

But twenty times, I rather would be
An atheist clean,

Than under gospel colours hid be

Just for a screen.

An honest man may like a glass,
An honest man may like a lass,
But mean revenge, an' malice fause
He'll still disdain,

An' then cry zeal for gospel laws,
Like some we ken.

They tak religion in their mouth;
They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth,
For what?-to gie their malice skouth
On some puir wight,

An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth,
To ruin straight.

All hail, Religion! maid divine!
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine,
Who, in her rough, imperfect line

Thus daurs to name thee;

To stigmatize false friends of thine

Can ne'er defame thee.

Though blotch't an foul wi' mony a stain, An' far unworthy of thy train,

With trembling voice I tune my strain,

To join with those

Who boldly daur thy cause maintain

In spite o' foes:

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs,
In spite o' undermining jobs,

In spite o' dark banditti stabs

At worth an' merit,

By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes
But hellish spirit.

O Ayr! my dear, my native ground,
Within thy presbyterial bound,

A candid liberal band is found

Of public teachers,

As men, as Christians too, renowned,
An' manly preachers.

Sir, in that circle you are named;
Sir, in that circle you are famed;

An' some, by whom your doctrine's blamed,
(Which gies you honour,)

E'en, sir, by them your heart's esteemed,
An' winning manner.

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en,
An' if impertinent I've been,
Impute it not, good sir, in ane

Whase heart ne'er wranged ye,

But to his utmost would befriend

Ought that belanged t'ye.

TO JOHN GOUDIE, KILMARNOCK,

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS ON THE SCRIPTURES.

O GOUDIE! terror of the Whigs,

Dread of black coats and reverend wigs,

Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,

Girnin', looks back,

Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues

Wad seize you quick.

Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition,

Waes me! she's in a sad condition;

Fie! bring Black Jock, her state physician, To see her water:

Alas! there's ground o'

great suspicion
She'll ne'er get better.

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,
But now she's got an unco ripple;
Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel,
Nigh unto death;

See, how she fetches at the thrapple,
An' gasps for breath!

Enthusiasm's past redemption,
Gaen in a galloping consumption;
Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption,
Will ever mend her.

Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption
Death soon will end her.

'Tis you and Taylor are the chief
Wha are to blame for this mischief,
But gin the Lord's ain folks gat leave,
A toom tar-barrel,

An' twa red peats wad send relief,

An' end the quarrel.

TO GAVIN HAMILTON,

RECOMMENDING A BOY.

I HOLD it, sir, my bounded duty
To warn you how that Master Tootie,
Alias, Laird M'Gaun,

Was here to hire yon lad away
'Bout whom ye spak the tither day,

And wad hae done 't aff han';
But lest he learn the callan tricks,
As, faith, I muckle doubt him,