O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine,
The wale o cocks for fun an drinkin!
Theres mony godly folks are thinkin,
Your dreams and tricks
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin
Straught to auld Nicks.
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!
Sparet for their sakes, wha aften wear it
The lads in black;
But your curst wit, when it comes near it,
Rivest aff their back.
Think, wicked Sinner, wha yere skaithing:
Its just the Blue-gown badge an claithing
O saunts; tak that, ye leae them naething
To ken them by
Frae ony unregenerate heathen,
Like you or I.
Ive sent you here some rhyming ware,
A that I bargaind for, an mair;
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare,
I will expect,
Yon sang yell sent, wi cannie care,
And no neglect.
Tho faith, sma heart hae I to sing!
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing;
Ive playd mysel a bonie spring,
An dancd my fill!
Id better gaen an sairt the king,
At Bunkers Hill.
Twas ae night lately, in my fun,
I gaed a rovin wi the gun,
An brought a paitrick to the grun
A bonie hen;
And, as the twilight was begun,
Thought nane wad ken.
The poor, wee thing was little hurt;
I straikit it a wee for sport,
Neer thinkin they wad fash me fort;
But, Deil-ma-care!
Somebody tells the poacher-court
The hale affair.
Some auld, usd hands had taen a note,
That sic a hen had got a shot;
I was suspected for the plot;
I scornd to lie;
So gat the whissle o my groat,
An payt the fee.
But by my gun, o guns the wale,
An by my pouther an my hail,
An by my hen, an by her tail,
I vow an swear!
The game shall pay, oer muir an dale,
For this, niest year.
As soons the clockin-time is by,
An the wee pouts begun to cry,
Lord, Ise hae sporting by an by
For my gowd guinea,
Tho I should herd the buckskin kye
Fort in Virginia.
Trowth, they had muckle for to blame!
Twas neither broken wing nor limb,
But twa-three draps about the wame,
Scarce thro the feathers;
An baith a yellow George to claim,
An thole their blethers!
It pits me aye as mads a hare;
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;
But pennyworths again is fair,
When times expedient:
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,
Your most obedient.