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 noble 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 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’ 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 sturdy,
     Wha, if they ken me,
     Can easy, wi’ a single wordie,
     Lowse hell 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?