While highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes; While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies ; While terra firma, on her axis Diurnal turns, Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, In Robert Burns. POSTSCRIPT. My memory's no worth a preen; I had amaist forgotten clean, Ye bade me write you what they mean By this new-light,* 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been Maist like to fight. * See note, p. 67. In In days when mankind were but callans At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, They took nae pains their speech to balance, Or rules to gie, But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallans, Like you or me. In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, Wore by degrees, till her last roon, Gaed past their viewing, An' shortly after she was done, They gat a new one. This past for certain, undisputed; Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk; For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk, An' out o' sight, An' backlins-comin, to the leuk, She grew mair bright. This was deny'd, it was affirm'd; The herds an' hissels were alarm'd: The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd, That beardless laddies Should think they better were inform'd Than their auld daddies. Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks; An' monie a fallow gat his licks, Wi' hearty crunt; An' some, to learn them for their tricks, Were hang'd an brunt. 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, But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an-stowe, Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe, Ye'll find ane plac'd; An' some, their new-light fair avow, Just quite barefac'd. Nae Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin ; To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on But shortly they will cowe the louns! An' stay ae month amang the moons 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 I hope, we bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulzie. EPISTLE |