But, word an’ blow, North, Fox, and Co. 
     Gowff’d Willie like a ba’, man;
     Till Suthron raise, an’ coost their claise
     Behind him in a raw, man: 
     An’ Caledon threw by the drone,
     An’ did her whittle draw, man;
     An’ swoor fu’ rude, thro’ dirt an’ bluid,
     To mak it guid in law, man.

Reply To An Announcement By J. Rankine On His Writing To The Poet,
That A Girl In That Part Of The Country Was With A Child To Him.

     I am a keeper of the law
     In some sma’ points, altho’ not a’;
     Some people tell me gin I fa’,
     Ae way or ither,
     The breaking of ae point, tho’ sma’,
     Breaks a’ thegither.

     I hae been in for’t ance or twice,
     And winna say o’er far for thrice;
     Yet never met wi’ that surprise
     That broke my rest;
     But now a rumour’s like to rise—­
     A whaup’s i’ the nest!

Epistle To John Rankine

     Enclosing Some Poems

     O Rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine,
     The wale o’ cocks for fun an’ drinkin! 
     There’s mony godly folks are thinkin,
     Your dreams and tricks
     Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin
     Straught to auld Nick’s.

     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! 
     Spare’t for their sakes, wha aften wear it—­
     The lads in black;
     But your curst wit, when it comes near it,
     Rives’t aff their back.

     Think, wicked Sinner, wha ye’re skaithing: 
     It’s just the Blue-gown badge an’ claithing
     O’ saunts; tak that, ye lea’e them naething
     To ken them by
     Frae ony unregenerate heathen,
     Like you or I.

     I’ve sent you here some rhyming ware,
     A’ that I bargain’d for, an’ mair;
     Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare,
     I will expect,
     Yon sang ye’ll sen’t, wi’ cannie care,
     And no neglect.

     Tho’ faith, sma’ heart hae I to sing! 
     My muse dow scarcely spread her wing;
     I’ve play’d mysel a bonie spring,
     An’ danc’d my fill! 
     I’d better gaen an’ sair’t the king,
     At Bunkjer’s 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,
     Ne’er thinkin they wad fash me for’t;
     But, Deil-ma-care! 
     Somebody tells the poacher-court
     The hale affair.