Some books are lies frae end to end,And some great lies were never penn’d:Ev’n ministers they hae been kenn’d,In holy rapture,A rousing whid at times to vend,And nail’t wi’ Scripture. But this that I am gaun to tell,Which lately on a night befell,Is just as true’s the Deil’s in hellOr Dublin city:That e’er he nearer […]

April 21, 1785 While new-ca’d kye rowte at the stakeAn’ pownies reek in pleugh or braik,This hour on e’enin’s edge I take,To own I’m debtorTo honest-hearted, auld Lapraik,For his kind letter. Forjesket sair, with weary legs,Rattlin the corn out-owre the rigs,Or dealing thro’ amang the naigsTheir ten-hours’ bite,My awkart Muse sair pleads and begsI would […]

April 1, 1785 While briers an’ woodbines budding green,An’ paitricks scraichin loud at e’en,An’ morning poussie whiddin seen,Inspire my muse,This freedom, in an unknown frien’,I pray excuse. On Fasten–e’en we had a rockin,To ca’ the crack and weave our stockin;And there was muckle fun and jokin,Ye need na doubt;At length we had a hearty yokinAt […]

Tune–“The Northern Lass.” Tho’ cruel fate should bid us part,Far as the pole and line,Her dear idea round my heart,Should tenderly entwine.Tho’ mountains, rise, and deserts howl,And oceans roar between;Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,I still would love my Jean.. . . . . . . 1785

Tune–“John Anderson, my jo.” One night as I did wander,When corn begins to shoot,I sat me down to ponderUpon an auld tree root;Auld Ayr ran by before me,And bicker’d to the seas;A cushat crooded o’er me,That echoed through the braes. . . . . . . 1785

Schoolmaster, Ochiltree.–May, 1785 I gat your letter, winsome Willie;Wi’ gratefu’ heart I thank you brawlie;Tho’ I maun say’t, I wad be silly,And unco vain,Should I believe, my coaxin billieYour flatterin strain. But I’se believe ye kindly meant it:I sud be laith to think ye hintedIronic satire, sidelins sklentedOn my poor Musie;Tho’ in sic phraisin terms […]

Author Of The Gospel Recovered.–August, 1785 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 plaguesMay seize you quick. Poor gapin’, glowrin’ Superstition!Wae’s me, she’s in a sad condition:Fye: bring Black Jock, [1] her state physician,To see her water;Alas, there’s ground for […]

[Note: Ruisseaux is French for rivulets or “burns,” a translation of his name.] Now Robin lies in his last lair,He’ll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair;Cauld poverty, wi’ hungry stare,Nae mair shall fear him;Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care,E’er mair come near him. To tell the truth, they seldom fash’d him,Except the moment that they […]

Tune–“Daintie Davie.” There was a lad was born in Kyle,But whatna day o’ whatna style,I doubt it’s hardly worth the whileTo be sae nice wi’ Robin. Chor.–Robin was a rovin’ boy,Rantin’, rovin’, rantin’, rovin’,Robin was a rovin’ boy,Rantin’, rovin’, Robin! Our monarch’s hindmost year but aneWas five-and-twenty days begun [1],‘Twas then a blast o’ Janwar’ […]

[1] A robe of seeming truth and trustHid crafty Observation;And secret hung, with poison’d crust,The dirk of Defamation: A mask that like the gorget show’d,Dye-varying on the pigeon;And for a mantle large and broad,He wrapt him in Religion.Hypocrisy A-La-Mode Upon a simmer Sunday mornWhen Nature’s face is fair,I walked forth to view the corn,An’ snuff […]

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’rTo shun the bitter blaudin’ show’r,Or in gulravage rinnin scowrTo pass the time,To you I dedicate the hourIn idle rhyme. My musie, tir’d wi’ mony a sonnetOn gown, an’ ban’, an’ douse black […]

Guid speed and furder to you, Johnie,Guid health, hale han’s, an’ weather bonie;Now, when ye’re nickin down fu’ cannieThe staff o’ bread,May ye ne’er want a stoup o’ bran’yTo clear your head. May Boreas never thresh your rigs,Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,Sendin the stuff o’er muirs an’ haggsLike drivin wrack;But may the tapmost […]

Tune–“Loch Eroch-side.” Young Peggy blooms our boniest lass,Her blush is like the morning,The rosy dawn, the springing grass,With early gems adorning.Her eyes outshine the radiant beamsThat gild the passing shower,And glitter o’er the crystal streams,And cheer each fresh’ning flower. Her lips, more than the cherries bright,A richer dye has graced them;They charm th’ admiring gazer’s […]

A Brother Poet Auld Neibour,I’m three times doubly o’er your debtor,For your auld-farrant, frien’ly letter;Tho’ I maun say’t I doubt ye flatter,Ye speak sae fair;For my puir, silly, rhymin clatterSome less maun sair. Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle,Lang may your elbuck jink diddle,To cheer you thro’ the weary widdleO’ war’ly cares;Till barins’ […]

Her flowing locks, the raven’s wing,Adown her neck and bosom hing;How sweet unto that breast to cling,And round that neck entwine her! Her lips are roses wat wi’ dew,O’ what a feast her bonie mou’!Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,A crimson still diviner! 1785

Tune–“Miss Forbe’s farewell to Banff.” 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! Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,Again ye’ll flourish fresh and […]

[To a Mouse, On Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785] Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!Thou need na start awa sae hasty,Wi’ bickering brattle!I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,Wi’ murd’ring pattle! I’m truly sorry man’s dominion,Has broken nature’s social union,An’ justifies that […]

Gude pity me, because I’m little!For though I am an elf o’ mettle,An’ can, like ony wabster’s shuttle,Jink there or here,Yet, scarce as lang’s a gude kail-whittle,I’m unco queer. An’ now Thou kens our waefu’ case;For Geordie’s jurr we’re in disgrace,Because we stang’d her through the place,An’ hurt her spleuchan;For whilk we daurna show our […]

Lament him, Mauchline husbands a’,He aften did assist ye;For had ye staid hale weeks awa,Your wives they ne’er had miss’d ye. Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye pressTo school in bands thegither,O tread ye lightly on his grass,–Perhaps he was your father! 1785

Here lies Johnie Pigeon;What was his religion?Whae’er desires to ken,To some other warl’Maun follow the carl,For here Johnie Pigeon had nane! Strong ale was ablution,Small beer persecution,A dram was memento mori;But a full-flowing bowlWas the saving his soul,And port was celestial glory. 1785