epistle to john rankine

  enclosing some poems

  o rough, rude, ready-witted rankine,

  the wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin!

  there's mony godly folks are thinkin,

  your dreams and tricks

  will send you, korah-like, a-sinkin

  straught to auld nick's.

  ye hae saw mony cracks an' cants,

  and in your wicked, drucken rants,

  ye mak a 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 dinna tear it!

  spare't for their sakes, wha aften wear it—

  the lads in black;

  but your curst wit, when ites near it,

  rives't aff their back.

  think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing:

  it's just the blue-gown badge an' claithing

  o' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething

  to ken them by

  frae ony unregenerate heathen,

  like you or i.

  i've sent you here some rhyming ware,

  a' that i bargain'd for, an' mair;

  sae, when ye hae an hour to spare,

  i will expect,

  yon sang ye'll sen't, wi' cannie care,

  and no neglect.

  tho' faith, sma' heart hae i to sing!

  my muse dow scarcely spread her wing;

  i've play'd mysel a bonie spring,

  an' danc'd my fill!

  i'd better gaen an' sair't the king,

  at bunkjer's hill.

  'twas ae night late