O Rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine,
The waleo’ cocksfor fun an’ drinkin!
There’s mony godly folks are thinkin,
Your dreams and tricks
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin
Straughtto auldNick’s.
Ye hae sawmony cracks an’ cants,
And in your wicked, drucken rants,
Ye maka 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 dinnatear it!
Spare’t for their sakes, wha aftenwear it-
The lads in black;
But your curst wit, when it comes near it,
Rives’t afftheir back.
Think, wicked Sinner, whaye’re skaithing:
It’s just the Blue-gownbadge an’ claithing
O’ saunts; takthat, ye lea’e them naething
To kenthem by
Fraeony unregenerate heathen,
Like you orI.
I’ve sent you here some rhyming ware,
A’that I bargain’d for, an’ mair;
Sae, when ye hae anhour to spare,
I will expect,
Yonsang ye’ll sen’t, wi’ canniecare,
And noneglect.
Tho’ faith, sma’heart hae I to sing!
My muse dowscarcely spread her wing;
I’ve play’d mysel a bonie spring,
An’ danc’d my fill!
I’d better gaenan’ sair’t the king,
At Bunkjer’s Hill.
‘Twas aenight lately, in my fun,
I gaeda rovin’ wi’the gun,
An’ brought a paitrickto the grun’-
A boniehen;
And, as the twilight was begun,
Thought nanewad ken.
The poor, wee thing was little hurt;
I straikit it a wee for sport,
Ne’er thinkin they wadfashme for’t;
But, Deil-ma-care!
Somebody tells the poacher-court
The haleaffair.
Some auld, us’d hands had taena note,
That sica hen had got a shot;
I was suspected for the plot;
I scorn’d to lie;
So gatthe whissleo’ my groat,
An’ pay’t the fee.
But by my gun, o’guns the wale,
An’ by my poutheran’ my hail,
An’ by my hen, an’ by her tail,
I vow an’ swear!
The game shall pay, o’er muir an’ dale,
For this, niest year.
As soon’s the clockin-timeis by,
An’ the weepoutsbegun to cry,
Lord, I’sehaesporting by an’ by
For my gowdguinea,
Tho’ I should herdthe buckskinkye
For’t in Virginia.
Trowth, they had mucklefor to blame!
‘Twas neither broken wing nor limb,
But twa-threedraps about the wame,
Scarce thro’ the feathers;
An’ baitha yellow George to claim,
An’tholetheir blethers!
It pits me aye as mad’s a hare;
So I can rhyme nor write naemair;
Butpennyworths again is fair,
When time’s expedient:
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,
Your most obedient.