Guid speed and furderto you, Johnie,
Guidhealth, halehan’s, an’ weather bonie;
Now, when ye’re nickin down fu’cannie
The staff o’ bread,
May ye ne’er want a stoup o’bran’y
To clear your head.
May Boreas never thresh your rigs,
Nor kick your ricklesafftheir legs,
Sendin the stuff o’er muirs an’ haggs
Like drivin wrack;
But may the tapmostgrain that wags
Come to the sack.
I’m bizzie, too, an’ skelpin at it,
But bitter, daudin showers haewat it;
Sae my auld stumpiepen I gatit
Wi’ mucklewark,
An’ took my jocteleganwhattit,
Like ony clark.
It’s now twamonth that I’m your debtor,
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter,
Abusin me for harsh ill-nature
On holy men,
While deila hair yoursel’ ye’re better,
But mairprofane.
But let the kirk-folk ring their bells,
Let’s sing about our noble sel’s:
We’ll cry naejads fraeheathen hills
To help, orrooseus;
But browster wivesan’ whisky stills,
They are the muses.
Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it,
An’ if ye mak’ objections at it,
Then hand in neive some day we’ll knot it,
An’ witness take,
An’ when wi’ usquabaewe’ve watit
It winnabreak.
But if the beast an’ branksbe spar’d
Till kyebe gaunwithout the herd,
And a’the vittel in the yard,
An’ theekit right,
I mean your ingle-side to guard
Aewinter night.
Then muse-inspirin’ aqua-vitae
Shall make us baithsae blythe and witty,
Tillye forget ye’re auldan’ gatty,
An’ be as canty
As ye were nine years less than thretty-
Sweet anean’ twenty!
Butstooks are cowpit wi’the blast,
And now the sinnkeeks in the west,
Then I maunrinamangthe rest,
An’quatmy chanter;
SaeI subscribe myself’ in haste,
Yours, Rabthe Ranter.