Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/136

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THE POEMS OF BURNS.
This was deny'd, it was affirm'd;The herds an' hissels were alarm'd:The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd,That beardless laddiesShould think they better were inform'dThan 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,An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands,That, faith, the youngsters took the sandsWi' nimble shanks,The lairds forbad, 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 ev'ry knoweYe'll find ane plac'd;An' some, their new-light fair avow,Just quite barefac'd.
Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin;Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin;Mysel, I've even seen them greetinWi' girnin spite,To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd onBy word an' write.
But shortly they will cowe the louns!Some auld light herds in neebor townsAre mind't, in things they ca' balloons,To tak a flight,An' stay ae 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 clatterIs naething but a 'moonshine matter;'But tho' dull-prose folk Latin splatterIn logic tulzie,I hope, we Bardies ken some betterThan mind sic brulzie.

EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE, ENCLOSING SOME POEMS.

O rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine,The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin!There's mony godly folks are thinkin,Your dreams an' tricksWill send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin,Straught to auld Nick's.
Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants,And in your wicked, druken rants,Ye mak a devil o' the saunts,An' fill them fou;And then their failings, flaws, an' wants,Are a' seen thro'.
Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!That holy robe, O 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
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