Auld comrade dear, and brither sinner,How’s a’ the folk about Glenconner?How do you this blae eastlin wind,That’s like to blaw a body blind?For me, my faculties are frozen,My dearest member nearly dozen’d.I’ve sent you here, by Johnie Simson,Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on;Smith, wi’ his sympathetic feeling,An’ Reid, to common sense appealing.Philosophers have fought and wrangled,An’ meikle Greek an’ Latin mangled,Till wi’ their logic-jargon tir’d,And in the depth of science mir’d,To common sense they now appeal,What wives and wabsters see and feel.But, hark ye, friend! I charge you strictly,Peruse them, an’ return them quickly:For now I’m grown sae cursed douceI pray and ponder butt the house;My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin’,Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an’ Boston,Till by an’ by, if I haud on,I’ll grunt a real gospel-groan:Already I begin to try it,To cast my e’en up like a pyet,When by the gun she tumbles o’erFlutt’ring an’ gasping in her gore:Sae shortly you shall see me bright,A burning an’ a shining light.30
My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen,The ace an’ wale of honest men:When bending down wi’ auld grey hairsBeneath the load of years and cares,May He who made him still support him,An’ views beyond the grave comfort him;His worthy fam’ly far and near,God bless them a’ wi’ grace and gear!38
My auld schoolfellow, Preacher Willie,The manly tar, my mason-billie,And Auchenbay, I wish him joy,If he’s a parent, lass or boy,May he be dad, and Meg the mither,Just five-and-forty years thegither!And no forgetting wabster Charlie,I’m tauld he offers very fairly.An’ Lord, remember singing Sannock,Wi’ hale breeks, saxpence, an’ a bannock!And next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy,Since she is fitted to her fancy,An’ her kind stars hae airted till hergA guid chiel wi’ a pickle siller.My kindest, best respects, I sen’ it,To cousin Kate, an’ sister Janet:Tell them, frae me, wi’ chiels be cautious,For, faith, they’ll aiblins fin’ them fashious;To grant a heart is fairly civil,But to grant a maidenhead’s the devil.An’ lastly, Jamie, for yoursel,May guardian angels tak a spell,An’ steer you seven miles south o’ hell:But first, before you see heaven’s glory,May ye get mony a merry story,Mony a laugh, and mony a drink,And aye eneugh o’ needfu’ clink.65
Now fare ye weel, an’ joy be wi’ you:For my sake, this I beg it o’ you,Assist poor Simson a’ ye can,Ye’ll fin; him just an honest man;Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter,Your’s, saint or sinner,Rob the Ranter.72