But there’s Morality himsel’,
     Embracing all opinions;
     Hear, how he gies the tither yell,
     Between his twa companions! 
     See, how she peels the skin an’ fell,
     As ane were peelin onions! 
     Now there, they’re packed aff to hell,
     An’ banish’d our dominions,
     Henceforth this day.

     O happy day! rejoice, rejoice! 
     Come bouse about the porter! 
     Morality’s demure decoys
     Shall here nae mair find quarter: 
     Mackinlay, Russell, are the boys
     That heresy can torture;
     They’ll gie her on a rape a hoyse,
     And cowe her measure shorter
     By th’ head some day.

     Come, bring the tither mutchkin in,
     And here’s—­for a conclusion—­
     To ev’ry New Light^12 mother’s son,
     From this time forth, Confusion! 
     If mair they deave us wi’ their din,
     Or Patronage intrusion,
     We’ll light a spunk, and ev’ry skin,
     We’ll rin them aff in fusion
     Like oil, some day.

     [Footnote 12:  “New Light” is a cant phrase in the west of
     Scotland for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of
     Norwich has so strenuously defended.—­R.  B.]

Epistle To James Smith

     Friendship, mysterious cement of the soul! 
     Sweet’ner of Life, and solder of Society! 
     I owe thee much—­Blair.

     Dear Smith, the slee’st, pawkie thief,
     That e’er attempted stealth or rief! 
     Ye surely hae some warlock-brief
     Owre human hearts;
     For ne’er a bosom yet was prief
     Against your arts.

     For me, I swear by sun an’ moon,
     An’ ev’ry star that blinks aboon,
     Ye’ve cost me twenty pair o’ shoon,
     Just gaun to see you;
     An’ ev’ry ither pair that’s done,
     Mair taen I’m wi’ you.

     That auld, capricious carlin, Nature,
     To mak amends for scrimpit stature,
     She’s turn’d you off, a human creature
     On her first plan,
     And in her freaks, on ev’ry feature
     She’s wrote the Man.

     Just now I’ve ta’en the fit o’ rhyme,
     My barmie noddle’s working prime. 
     My fancy yerkit up sublime,
     Wi’ hasty summon;
     Hae ye a leisure-moment’s time
     To hear what’s comin?

     Some rhyme a neibor’s name to lash;
     Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu’ cash;
     Some rhyme to court the countra clash,
     An’ raise a din;
     For me, an aim I never fash;
     I rhyme for fun.

     The star that rules my luckless lot,
     Has fated me the russet coat,
     An’ damn’d my fortune to the groat;
     But, in requit,
     Has blest me with a random-shot
     O’countra wit.