AULD comrade dear, and brither sinner,
Hows a the folk about Glenconner?
How do you this blae eastlin wind,
Thats like to blaw a body blind?
For me, my faculties are frozen,
My dearest member nearly dozend.
Ive sent you here, by Johnie Simson,
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on;
Smith, wi his sympathetic feeling,
An Reid, to common sense appealing.
Philosophers have fought and wrangled,
An meikle Greek an Latin mangled,
Till wi their logic-jargon tird,
And in the depth of science mird,
To common sense they now appeal,
What wives and wabsters see and feel.
But, hark ye, friend! I charge you strictly,
Peruse them, an return them quickly:
For now Im grown sae cursed douce
I pray and ponder butt the house;
My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin,
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an Boston,
Till by an by, if I haud on,
Ill grunt a real gospel-groan:
Already I begin to try it,
To cast my een up like a pyet,
When by the gun she tumbles oer
Fluttring an gasping in her gore:
Sae shortly you shall see me bright,
A burning an a shining light.
My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen,
The ace an wale of honest men:
When bending down wi auld grey hairs
Beneath the load of years and cares,
May He who made him still support him,
An views beyond the grave comfort him;
His worthy famly far and near,
God bless them a wi grace and gear!
My auld schoolfellow, Preacher Willie,
The manly tar, my mason-billie,
And Auchenbay, I wish him joy,
If hes a parent, lass or boy,
May he be dad, and Meg the mither,
Just five-and-forty years thegither!
And no forgetting wabster Charlie,
Im tauld he offers very fairly.
An Lord, remember singing Sannock,
Wi hale breeks, saxpence, an a bannock!
And next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy,
Since she is fitted to her fancy,
An her kind stars hae airted till her
gA guid chiel wi a pickle siller.
My kindest, best respects, I sen it,
To cousin Kate, an sister Janet:
Tell them, frae me, wi chiels be cautious,
For, faith, theyll aiblins fin them fashious;
To grant a heart is fairly civil,
But to grant a maidenheads the devil.
An lastly, Jamie, for yoursel,
May guardian angels tak a spell,
An steer you seven miles south o hell:
But first, before you see heavens glory,
May ye get mony a merry story,
Mony a laugh, and mony a drink,
And aye eneugh o needfu clink.
Now fare ye weel, an joy be wi you:
For my sake, this I beg it o you,
Assist poor Simson a ye can,
Yell fin; him just an honest man;
Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter,
Yours, saint or sinner,ROB THE RANTER.