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This game was play'd in monie lands,
An' Auld Light caddies bure sic hands,
That, faith, the youngsters took the sands
Wi' nimble shanks,

'Till lairds forbade, by strict commands,
Sic bluidy pranks.

But New Light herds gat sic a cowe,
Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe,
Till now amaist on every knowe,

Ye'll find ane plac'd;

An' some their New-Light fair avow,

Just quite barefac'd.

Nae doubt the Auld Light flocks are bleatin' ; Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin' ;

Mysel', I've even seen them greetin'

Wi' girnin' spite,

To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on
By word an' write.

But shortly they will cowe the loons!
Some Auld Light herds in neebor towns
Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons,
To tak a flight,

An' stay ae month amang the moons
And see them right.

Guid observation they will gie them;

An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them,
The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them,
Just i' their pouch,

An' when the New Light billies see them,
I think they'll crouch!

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter
Is naething but a "moonshine matter;"
But tho' dull prose-folk latin splatter
In logic tulzie,

I hope we bardies ken some better

Than mind sic brulzie.

William Simpson was, in the days of Burns, and is still, schoolmaster of the parish of Ochiltree; he has performed carefully the duties of his station, and lives respected by his scholars, some of whom are to be found in the east as well as in the west. Burns seems to have been partial to this class of men. He corresponded with David Sillar; he wrote anxiously to John Murdoch; William Nicol was long his companion, as well as correspondent; to Allan Masterton he was partial : he was intimate with the warm-hearted and enthusiastic James Gray. The present epistle shews what he thought of William Simpson; indeed, with all he was social and friendly who had any claim to education or information, save the unfortunate Dr. Hornbook. The natural modesty of the Poet is as visible in this epistle as it is elsewhere: as

VOL. N.

a rhymer, he aspires not to rank with Allan Ramsay, or Hamilton of Gilbertfield

"Or Fergusson, the writer chiel,
A deathless name."

But he desires to sing of the hills and dales, and heroes and beauties of Kyle in his own rude country tongue. As Simpson is "a rhyme-composing brither," Burns speaks to him about his own aspirations; and, as he is a candidate for a kirk, he adds a postscript—a rather mystical one-on the heresy of the New Light.

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It is likely that honest "John Ochiltree of the old song took his name from Simpson's parish: and it is more than likely that the inimitable Edie Ochiltree of Scott's romance was baptized after the hero of the song: elsewhere, and in the strains of Burns, the name occurs. "The night it was a haly night,

The day had been a haly day:
Kilmarnock gleam'd wi' caunle-light,
As hameward Girzie took her way.
A man o' sin, black be his fa'!

May he ne'er haly matin see-
Met gracious Girzie, wal-awa!
Amang the hills of Ochiltree."

TO J. LAPRAIK.

Sept. 13th, 1785.

GUID speed an' furder to you Johnny,

Guid health, hale han's, an' weather bonny; Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny

The staff o' bread,

May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y
To clear your head.

May Boreas never thresh your rigs,
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs

Like drivin' wrack;

But may the tapmast grain that wags
Come to the sack.

I'm 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.

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' whiskey stills,

They are the muses.

Your friendship Sir, I winna quat it,

An' if ye mak' objections at it,

Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it,

An' witness take,

An' when wi' Usquabae we've wat it

It winna break.

But if the beast and branks be spar'd
Till kye be gaun without the herd,

An' a' the vittel in the yard,

An' theekit right,

I mean your ingle-side to guard

Ae winter night.

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