It’s now twa month that I’m your debtor, For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, Abusin me for harsh ill-nature On holy men, While deil a hair yoursel’ ye’re better, But mair profane. But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, Let’s sing about our noble sel’s: We’ll 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 we’ll knot it, An’ witness take, An’ when wi’ usquabae we’ve wat it It winna break. But if the beast an’ branks be spar’d 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 ye’re 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. Epistle To The Rev. John M’math 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’r To shun the bitter blaudin’ show’r, Or in gulravage rinnin scowr To pass the time, To you I dedicate the hour In idle rhyme. My musie, tir’d wi’ mony a sonnet On gown, an’ ban’, an’ douse black bonnet, Is grown right eerie now she’s done it, Lest they should blame her, An’ rouse their holy thunder on it An anathem her. I own ’twas rash, an’ rather hardy, That I, a simple, country bardie, Should meddle wi’ a pack sae sturdy, Wha, if they ken me, Can easy, wi’ a single wordie, Lowse hell upon me. But I gae mad at their grimaces, Their sighin, cantin, grace-proud faces, Their three-mile prayers, an’ half-mile graces, Their raxin conscience, Whase greed, revenge, an’ pride disgraces Waur nor their nonsense. There’s Gaw’n, misca’d waur than a beast, Wha has mair honour in his breast Than mony scores as guid’s the priest Wha sae abus’d him: And may a bard no crack his jest What way they’ve us’d him? See him, the poor man’s friend in need, The gentleman in word an’ deed— An’ shall his fame an’ honour bleed By worthless, skellums, An’ not a muse erect her head To cowe the blellums? O Pope, had I thy satire’s darts To gie the rascals their deserts, I’d rip their rotten, hollow hearts, An’ tell aloud Their jugglin hocus-pocus arts To cheat the crowd.