Auld comrade dear, and brithersinner,
How’s a’ the folk about Glenconner?
How do you this blaeeastlinwind,
That’s like to blawa bodyblind?
For me, my faculties are frozen,
My dearest member nearly dozen’d.
I’ve sent you here, by Johnie Simson,
Twasage philosophers to glimpse on;
Smith, wi’ his sympathetic feeling,
An’ Reid, to common sense appealing.
Philosophers have fought and wrangled,
An’ meikleGreek an’ Latin mangled,
Till wi’ their logic-jargon tir’d,
And in the depth of science mir’d,
To common sense they now appeal,
What wives and wabsters see and feel.
But, hark ye, friend! I charge you strictly,
Peruse them, an’ return them quickly:
For now I’m grown sae cursed douce
I pray and ponder buttthe house;
My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin’,
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an’ Boston,
Till by an’ by, if I haudon,
I’ll grunt a real gospel-groan:
Already I begin to try it,
To cast my e’enup like a pyet,
When bythe gun she tumbles o’er
Flutt’ring an’ gasping in her gore:
Sae shortly you shall see me bright,
A burning an’ a shining light.

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen,
The ace an’ waleof honest men:
When bending down wi’ auld grey hairs
Beneath the load of years and cares,
May He who made him still support him,
An’ views beyond the grave comfort him;
His worthy fam’ly far and near,
God bless them a’ wi’ grace and gear!

My auld schoolfellow, Preacher Willie,
The manly tar, my mason-billie,
And Auchenbay, I wish him joy,
If he’s a parent, lass or boy,
May he be dad, and Meg the mither,
Just five-and-forty years thegither!
And noforgetting wabsterCharlie,
I’m tauldhe offers very fairly.
An’ Lord, remember singing Sannock,
Wi’ halebreeks, saxpence, an’ a bannock!
And next, my auldacquaintance, Nancy,
Since she is fitted to her fancy,
An’ her kind stars haeairted tillher
gA guidchielwi’ a picklesiller.
My kindest, best respects, I sen’it,
To cousin Kate, an’ sister Janet:
Tell them, fraeme, wi’ chiels be cautious,
For, faith, they’ll aiblinsfin’them fashious;
To grant a heart is fairly civil,
But to grant a maidenhead’s the devil.
An’ lastly, Jamie, for yoursel,
May guardian angels taka spell,
An’ steer you seven miles south o’ hell:
Butfirst, before you see heaven’s glory,
May ye getmony a merry story,
Mony a laugh, and mony a drink,
And aye eneugho’ needfu’ clink.

Now fare ye weel, an’joy be wi’you:
For my sake, this I beg it o’you,
Assist poor Simson a’ye can,
Ye’ll fin; him just anhonest man;
SaeI conclude, and quatmy chanter,
Your’s, saint orsinner,
Rob the Ranter.