While briers an' woodbines budding green, An' paitricks scraichinloud at e'en, An' morning poussiewhiddinseen, Inspire my muse, This freedom, in an unknown frien', I pray excuse. On Fasten-e'enwe had a rockin, To ca'the crackand weave our stockin; And there was mucklefun and jokin, Ye need nadoubt; At length we had a hearty yokin At sang
O Gowdie, terror o' the whigs, Dread o' blackcoats and rev'rend wigs! Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, Girns an' looks back, Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues May seize you quick. Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition! Wae's me, she's in a sad condition: Fye: bring Black Jock,^1her state physician, To see her water; Alas, there's ground
While at the stook the shearers cow'r To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, Orin gulravagerinnin scowr To pass the time, To you I dedicate the hour In idle rhyme. My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet On gown, an' ban', an' douseblack bonnet, Is grown right eerienow she's done it, Lest they should blame her,
Lament him, Mauchline husbands a', He aftendid assist ye; For had ye staid haleweeks awa, Your wives they ne'er had miss'd ye. Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press To school in bands thegither, O tread ye lightlyon his grass, - Perhaps he was your father!
Here Holy Willie's sairworn clay Taks up its last abode; His saulhas ta'en some other way, I fear, the left-hand road. Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun, Poor, silly body, see him; Naewonder he's as black's the grun, Observe wha'sstanding wi'him. Your brunstanedevilship, I see, Has got him there before ye; But haudyour
Here lies Johnie Pigeon; What was his religion? Whae'er desires to ken, To some other warl' Maunfollow the carl, For here Johnie Pigeon had nane! Strong ale was ablution, Small beer persecution, A dram was memento mori; Buta full-flowing bowl Was the saving his soul, And port was celestial glory.
The Catrine woods were yellow seen, The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee, Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, But nature sicken'd on the e'e. Thro' faded groves Maria sang, Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while; And aye the wild-wood ehoes rang, Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle! Lowin your wintry beds, ye flowers, Again ye'll flourish