Wee Miller^7 neist the guard relieves, An' Orthodoxy raibles, Tho' in his heart he weel believes, An' thinks it auld wives' fables: But faith! the birkie wants a manse, So, cannilie he hums them; Altho' his carnal wit an' sense Like hafflins-wise o'ercomes him At times that day.

Now, b.u.t.t an' ben, the change-house fills, Wi' yill-caup commentators; Here 's cryin out for bakes and gills, An' there the pint-stowp clatters; While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, Wi' logic an' wi' scripture, They raise a din, that in the end Is like to breed a rupture O' wrath that day.

Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair Than either school or college; It kindles wit, it waukens lear, It pangs us fou o' knowledge: Be't whisky-gill or penny wheep, Or ony stronger potion, It never fails, or drinkin deep, To kittle up our notion, By night or day.

The lads an' la.s.ses, blythely bent To mind baith saul an' body, Sit round the table, weel content, An' steer about the toddy:

[Footnote 6: A street so called which faces the tent in Mauchline.--R. B.]

[Footnote 7: Rev. Alex. Miller, afterward of Kilmaurs.]

On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, They're makin observations; While some are cozie i' the neuk, An' forming a.s.signations To meet some day.

But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts, Till a' the hills are rairin, And echoes back return the shouts; Black Russell is na sparin: His piercin words, like Highlan' swords, Divide the joints an' marrow; His talk o' h.e.l.l, whare devils dwell, Our vera "sauls does harrow"

Wi' fright that day!

A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, Fill'd fou o' lowin brunstane, Whase raging flame, an' scorching heat, Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!

The half-asleep start up wi' fear, An' think they hear it roarin; When presently it does appear, 'Twas but some neibor snorin Asleep that day.

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell, How mony stories past; An' how they crouded to the yill, When they were a' dismist; How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, Amang the furms an' benches; An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, Was dealt about in lunches An' dawds that day.

In comes a gawsie, gash guidwife, An' sits down by the fire, Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife; The la.s.ses they are shyer: The auld guidmen, about the grace Frae side to side they bother; Till some ane by his bonnet lays, An' gies them't like a tether, Fu' lang that day.

Waesucks! for him that gets nae la.s.s, Or la.s.ses that hae naething!

Sma' need has he to say a grace, Or melvie his braw claithing!

O wives, be mindfu' ance yoursel'

How bonie lads ye wanted; An' dinna for a kebbuck-heel Let la.s.ses be affronted On sic a day!

Now Clink.u.mbell, wi' rattlin tow, Begins to jow an' croon; Some swagger hame the best they dow, Some wait the afternoon.

At slaps the billies halt a blink, Till la.s.ses strip their shoon: Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, They're a' in famous tune For crack that day.

How mony hearts this day converts O' sinners and o' la.s.ses!

Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane As saft as ony flesh is: There's some are fou o' love divine; There's some are fou o' brandy; An' mony jobs that day begin, May end in houghmagandie Some ither day.

Third Epistle To J. Lapraik

Guid speed and furder to you, Johnie, Guid health, hale han'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 rickles aff their legs, Sendin the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs Like drivin wrack; But may the tapmost grain that wags Come to the sack.

I'm bizzie, too, an' skelpin at it, But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it; Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it Wi' muckle wark, An' took my jocteleg an whatt it, Like ony clark.

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, Abusin me for harsh ill-nature On holy men, While deil a hair yoursel' ye're better, But mair profane.

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, Let's sing about our n.o.ble sel's: We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills To help, or roose us; But browster wives an' 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' usquabae we've wat it It winna break.

But if the beast an' branks be spar'd Till kye be gaun without the herd, And a' the vittel in the yard, An' theekit right, I mean your ingle-side to guard Ae winter night.

Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitae Shall make us baith sae blythe and witty, Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty, An' be as canty As ye were nine years less than thretty-- Sweet ane an' twenty!

But stooks are cowpit wi' the blast, And now the sinn keeks in the west, Then I maun rin amang the rest, An' quat my chanter; Sae I subscribe myself' in haste, Yours, Rab the Ranter.

Epistle To The Rev. John M'math

Sept. 13, 1785.

Inclosing A Copy Of "Holy Willie's Prayer,"

Which He Had Requested, Sept. 17, 1785

While at the stook the shearers cow'r To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, Or in gulravage rinnin scowr To pa.s.s the time, To you I dedicate the hour In idle rhyme.

My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet, Is grown right eerie now she's done it, Lest they should blame her, An' rouse their holy thunder on it An anathem her.

I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy, That I, a simple, country bardie, Should meddle wi' a pack sae st.u.r.dy, Wha, if they ken me, Can easy, wi' a single wordie, Lowse h.e.l.l upon me.

But I gae mad at their grimaces, Their sighin, cantin, grace-proud faces, Their three-mile prayers, an' half-mile graces, Their raxin conscience, Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces Waur nor their nonsense.

There's Gaw'n, misca'd waur than a beast, Wha has mair honour in his breast Than mony scores as guid's the priest Wha sae abus'd him: And may a bard no crack his jest What way they've us'd him?

See him, the poor man's friend in need, The gentleman in word an' deed-- An' shall his fame an' honour bleed By worthless, skellums, An' not a muse erect her head To cowe the blellums?

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts To gie the rascals their deserts, I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, An' tell aloud Their jugglin hocus-pocus arts To cheat the crowd.

G.o.d knows, I'm no the thing I should be, Nor am I even the thing I could be, But twenty times I rather would be An atheist clean, Than under gospel colours hid be Just for a screen.

An honest man may like a gla.s.s, An honest man may like a la.s.s, But mean revenge, an' malice fause He'll still disdain, An' then cry zeal for gospel laws, Like some we ken.

They take religion in their mouth; They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth, For what?--to gie their malice skouth On some puir wight, An' hunt him down, owre right and ruth, To ruin straight.

All hail, Religion! maid divine!

Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, Who in her rough imperfect line Thus daurs to name thee; To stigmatise false friends of thine Can ne'er defame thee.

Tho' blotch't and foul wi' mony a stain, An' far unworthy of thy train, With trembling voice I tune my strain, To join with those Who boldly dare thy cause maintain In spite of foes:

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, In spite o' undermining jobs, In spite o' dark banditti stabs At worth an' merit, By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, But h.e.l.lish spirit.

O Ayr! my dear, my native ground, Within thy presbyterial bound A candid liberal band is found Of public teachers, As men, as Christians too, renown'd, An' manly preachers.

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd; Sir, in that circle you are fam'd; An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd (Which gies you honour) Even, sir, by them your heart's esteem'd, An' winning manner.

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, An' if impertinent I've been, Impute it not, good Sir, in ane Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye, But to his utmost would befriend Ought that belang'd ye.