GUID speed and furder to you, Johnie,
Guid health, hale hans, an weather bonie;
Now, when yere nickin down fu cannie
The staff o bread,
May ye neer want a stoup o brany
To clear your head.
May Boreas never thresh your rigs,
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,
Sendin the stuff oer muirs an haggs
Like drivin wrack;
But may the tapmost grain that wags
Come to the sack.
Im bizzie, too, an skelpin at it,
But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it;
Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it
Wi muckle wark,
An took my jocteleg an whatt it,
Like ony clark.
Its now twa month that Im your debtor,
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter,
Abusin me for harsh ill-nature
On holy men,
While deil a hair yoursel yere better,
But mair profane.
But let the kirk-folk ring their bells,
Lets sing about our noble sels:
Well 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 well knot it,
An witness take,
An when wi usquabae weve wat it
It winna break.
But if the beast an branks be spard
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 yere 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.Sept. 13, 1785.
