Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun,
Poor silly body, see him;
Nae wonder he's as black's the grun',
Observe wha's standing wi' him.

Your brunstane devilship, I see,
Has got him there before ye;
But haud your nine-tail cat a wee,
Till ance you've heard my story.

Your pity I will not implore,
For pity ye hae nane;
Justice, alas! has gien him o'er,
And mercy's day is gane.

But hear me, sir, deil as ye are,
Look something to your credit;

A coof like him wad stain your name,
If it were kent ye did it

little

fool

THIRD EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK.1

The harvest of 1785 was beset by wretched weather, and was very late. On Mossgiel the half of the crop was lost, a circumstance seriously affecting the prospects of Burns and his family. In two epistles of this period one to his brother poet Lapraik, the other to a clerical friend- the bard alludes

1 First published by Lapraik in a volume of his own poems.

to the evil season, as well as to the ecclesiastical bick

erings then going on.

September 13, 1785.

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

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

I'm bizzie too, and skelpin' at it,
But bitter, daudin' showers hae wat
Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it
Wi' muckle wark,

And took my jocteleg and whatt it,
Like ony clark.

cutting

ricka

mosses

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 let 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 and whisky-stills,
They are the muses.

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

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

And witness take,

And when wi' usquebae we've wat it,
It winna break.

But if the beast and branks be spared

Til kye be gaun without the herd,

And a' the vittel in the yard,

And theekit right,

I mean your ingle-side to guard

Ae winter-night.

Then muse-inspirin' aqua vitæ

Shall make us baith sae blithe and witty,
Till ye forget ye're auld and gutty,

And be as canty

As ye were nine year less than thretty –
Sweet ane-and-twenty !

fades

praise

fist

curbs

COWS

thatched

gouty

But stooks are cowpit wi' the blast,
And now the sinn keeks in the west,

Overturned

peeps

Then I maun rin amang the rest.

And quat my chanter;

Sae I subscribe myself in haste

Yours, RAB THE RANTER.1

pipes

EPISTLE TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH2

September 17, 1785.

shock-reapers

WHILE at the stook the shearers

cower

To shun the bitter blaudin' shower,
Or in gulravage rinnin' scower

To pass the time,

Το you I dedicate the hour

In idle rhyme.

My Musie, tired wi' monie a sonnet
On gown, and ban', and douce black

bonnet,

beating

confusion

grave

Is grown right eerie, now she's done it, fearful Lest they should blame her,

1 A sobriquet borrowed from the clever old Scotch song, Maggy Lauder.

2 At that time enjoying the appointment of assistant and successor to the Rev. Peter Wodrow, minister of Torbolton. He was an excellent preacher, and a decided moderate. He enjoyed the friendship of the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, and of Burns, but unhappily fell into low spirits, in consequence of his dependent situation, and became dissipated. He died in obscurity at Rossul, in the Isle of Mull, December 1825.

And rouse their holy thunder on it,
And anathém her.

I own 'twas rash, and 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 h- upon me.

But I gae mad at their grimaces,
Their sighin', cantin', grace-proud faces,
Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces,
Their raxin' conscience,

stretching

Whase greed, revenge, and pride disgraces

Waur nor their nonsense.

There's Gawn,1 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;

And 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 and deed,

And shall his fame and honour bleed

By worthless skellums,

1 Gavin Hamilton.

wretches