Elegy On The Death Of Robert Ruisseaux^1

     Now Robin lies in his last lair,
     He’ll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair;
     Cauld poverty, wi’ hungry stare,
     Nae mair shall fear him;
     Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care,
     E’er mair come near him.

     To tell the truth, they seldom fash’d him,
     Except the moment that they crush’d him;
     For sune as chance or fate had hush’d ’em
     Tho’ e’er sae short. 
     Then wi’ a rhyme or sang he lash’d ’em,
     And thought it sport.

     [Footnote 1:  Ruisseaux is French for rivulets
      or “burns,” a translation of his name.]

     Tho’he was bred to kintra-wark,
     And counted was baith wight and stark,
     Yet that was never Robin’s mark
     To mak a man;
     But tell him, he was learn’d and clark,
     Ye roos’d him then!

Epistle To John Goldie, In Kilmarnock

     Author Of The Gospel Recovered.—­August, 1785

     O Gowdie, terror o’ the whigs,
     Dread o’ blackcoats and rev’rend wigs! 
     Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,
     Girns an’ looks back,
     Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues
     May seize you quick.

     Poor gapin’, glowrin’ Superstition! 
     Wae’s me, she’s in a sad condition: 
     Fye:  bring Black Jock,^1 her state physician,
     To see her water;
     Alas, there’s ground for great suspicion
     She’ll ne’er get better.

     Enthusiasm’s past redemption,
     Gane in a gallopin’ consumption: 
     Not a’ her quacks, wi’ a’ their gumption,
     Can ever mend her;
     Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption,
     She’ll soon surrender.

     Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,
     For every hole to get a stapple;
     But now she fetches at the thrapple,
     An’ fights for breath;
     Haste, gie her name up in the chapel,^2
     Near unto death.

     It’s you an’ Taylor^3 are the chief
     To blame for a’ this black mischief;

     [Footnote 1:  The Rev. J. Russell, Kilmarnock.—­R.  B.]

     [Footnote 2:  Mr. Russell’s Kirk.—­R.  B.]

     [Footnote 3:  Dr. Taylor of Norwich.—­R.  B.]

     But, could the Lord’s ain folk get leave,
     A toom tar barrel
     An’ twa red peats wad bring relief,
     And end the quarrel.

     For me, my skill’s but very sma’,
     An’ skill in prose I’ve nane ava’;
     But quietlins-wise, between us twa,
     Weel may you speed! 
     And tho’ they sud your sair misca’,
     Ne’er fash your head.

     E’en swinge the dogs, and thresh them sicker! 
     The mair they squeel aye chap the thicker;
     And still ’mang hands a hearty bicker
     O’ something stout;
     It gars an owthor’s pulse beat quicker,
     And helps his wit.